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GOING TOGETHER 



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The back door-steps are my style, if you want to know 
























J 

Going Together 


By 

LOUISE DUTTON / 

Author of 

THUS GODDESS GIRL, THE WISHING MOON, 
ETC. 


1 

Frontispiece by 
JAMES H. CRANK 


m 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE ROBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright, 1921, 1922 
By The Curtis Publishing Company 

Copyright, 1923 
By Louise Dutton 


n 


Printed in the United States of America 


PRESS OF 

BRAUNWORTH & CO. 

BOOK MANUFACTURERS 
BROOKLYN, N. Y. 

MAR-5'23 

0 

©C1A896632 ' 

~*\9 y- 



My Grace 












































/ 




/ 












CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I The Dream-Tree 





PAGE 

11 

II 

The Twelve-Year-Old Kid 



• 


14 

III 

The Ball 



• 


29 

IV 

After the Ball 



• 


45 

V 

T. 0. A. K. 





52 

VI 

Parliamentary Law 





67 

VII 

In the Mirrored Room 





81 

VIII 

In Sophomore Row 





106 

IX 

Being Cold 





121 

X 

Breaking Up 





130 

XI 

The New Law . 





162 

XII 

Spooning 


.t 



191 

XIII 

Not Speaking 


• 



215 

XIV 

One Night in June . 

• 


• 


235 

XV 

Speaking 

• 

• 



254 

XVI 

The Boy from Away . 

• 

i» 

ft 


262 

XVII 

Guessing 

• 

• 

• 


279 

XVIII 

Coming Across . 

• 

a 



289 

XIX 

Magic Music 

« 

• 

9 


306 

XX 

The Dream-Tree g 

6 

i 

S 

ft 

310 








GOING TOGETHER 


/ 



GOING TOGETHER 


I 

THE DREAM-TREE 

A horse-chestnut tree stood at the southwest 
corner of the lawn. You loved it. You saw it 
every morning when you waked up—wide waving 
branches, high as your bedroom window; the 
slender trunk, with the slant that you liked, the big 
beautiful velvet leaves. You climbed into it on sunny 
afternoons, with a book that you did not read. 
You sat under it on the grass until bedtime, on 
summer nights, and looked at the stars. Main 
Street would be just before you, with all the street 
lamps lit, two lines of them, marching straight down 
to the shops and the ice-cream parlor and Post- 
Office Square. Behind you, across the little empty 
lawn, was the house, with one light in a window 
up-stairs, and a dim red-shaded lamp in the library 


ii 


12 


GOING TOGETHER 


below. And above you and all around you, shutting 
you in alone and safe and still, was the dark of the 
tree. 

It was a beautiful tree, twelve years old too, and 
your twin, transplanted the year you were born. 
Nobody else knew what its right name was, but you 
knew. You had always known. There was a song 
in the Children's Garland of Verse —not a real song, 
for it had only words and no tune, but you could 
make a tune, a sleepy tune, like a very old cradle 
rocking: 

Sleep, baby, sleep. 

Thy father guards the sheep. 

Thy mother shakes the dreamland tree— 
Down falls a little dream on thee— 

Sleep, baby, sleep. 

That was the song, and the song was about this 
tree. 

You would not shake the tree 'and make the 
dreams come down too fast; you never looked at 
Christmas presents before Christmas. But high in 
the tree was a smooth and shiny place that you 
could never quite reach. It was close above when 
you looked up, but it was always just ahead when 


THE DREAM-TREE 


13 


you climbed. That was the heart of the tree, and 
it was there that the dreams were—all the dreams. 

All the dreams. They were up there now in the 
dark. How many? A dream for every leaf? 
You could not count them. You did not want to. 
You put your head against the trunk and closed 
your eyes. Little-girl dreams that you could not 
dream much longer, big-girl dreams, and those 
other dreams that you would dream some day, 
when you were that other thing which you were 
not yet—a woman. You would not shake the tree, 
but the dreams would fall some day, one by one, 
like leaves. You could not stop them. They were 
all your dreams. 

“Half past eight, Sally Belle,” mother called to 
you from the house. 

Mother did not know why you loved this tree. 
Nobody guessed. They would laugh. And you 
did not think of it much. But down in one little 
place in your heart you never quite forgot. You 
always knew. Now, in the dark, you put your face 
against the smooth cool trunk of your tree and 
kissed it. The tree was a dream-tree. 


II 


THE TWELVE-YEAR-OLD KID 

Pig Plummer was coming across the lawn from 
his house next door. He was whistling The Geor¬ 
gia Camp-Meeting. Pig had a beautiful whistle, 
high and clear. His white sweater looked very 
white in the dark, and in the dark you could not see 
what a fat little boy he was. Pig came every night 
after supper. He knew she was there, but Sally 
Belle held her breath and sat very still under her 
tree. Pig stopped on the other side of the hedge 
and looked down at her, and poked his head for¬ 
ward in the way that he always did. 

“Sally Belle. Sally Belle Smith,” he said; then, 
“I spy!” 

“Don’t always call me that.” 

“What?” 

“Smith. It sounds silly.” 

“It’s your name,” said Pig firmly. “Can I come 
over ?” 


14 


THE TWELVE-YEAR-OLD KID 15 


“I don’t care.” 

“I don’t have to come.” 

“Nobody asked you.” 

“Eve got something to tell you.” 

“I’ve got something to tell you,” replied Sally 
Belle calmly, not interested. 

“Yes you have!” 

“Well, I have. Come on, if you’re coming.” 

Pig came. He pushed through the hedge and sat 
beside her, leaning against her tree. 

“I’ve got something to tell you,” he began again. 

“Oh, don’t talk. I don’t feel like talking. Not 
—not to-night.” 

“If I can’t talk can I whistle?” 

“I don’t care.” 

This was the way you always talked to Pig. 
You said little things that sounded like quarreling, 
but were not quite; the same things over and over. 
Pig had always lived next door. His father kept a 
grocery store, but it was the big one, next to the 
post-office in the square, and his mother had two 
girls, a cook and a second girl. Sally Belle’s mother 
did her own work, but her father was Judge Smith. 
Pig used to chase her and pull her hair when they 


i6 


GOING TOGETHER 


were children, but they were in grammar school 
now. They were seniors and would be in high 
school next year. Pig sat behind her in school and 
carried her books when she asked him to. When 
he was not trying to be funny she liked Pig, and 
she really had something to tell him; something 
wonderful. She had known it all day, since break¬ 
fast, and she had told nobody yet. 

Sally Belle hugged her knees tight with both 
arms. She was wearing her plaid winter school 
dress and her mother’s old golf cape, but her legs 
felt long and very cold. It was a pleasant shivery 
cold. This was May, and to-morrow would be the 
first day* of June. It would be Saturday, and it 
would be something else. Sally Belle half closed 
her eyes and looked through her lashes all up and 
down the street. This made the lights mist and 
dance. The street was beautiful to-night. The 
Palace Hotel, just opposite, looked like a real palace, 
splendid and dim and big. Up the street the 
Sewalls’ porch lantern glowed like a blazing fire. 
Down in the square the band was beginning to play. 
It was playing The Blue Danube Waltz. The 


THE TWELVE-YEAR-OLD KID 17 


Franklinville High School Concert and Ball was 
to-morrow, and Sally Belle was going. 

“Penny for your thoughts,” Pig said. 

“My thoughts are my own.” 

“Feeling pretty good to-night? Anybody left 
you money?” 

“When they do I’ll give you half, Pig.” 

“Thank you for nothing!” 

But Pig was pleased. Pig liked her, and she liked 
Pig. He would be pleased about the ball. Last 
year she and Pig had watched the people going into 
Odd Fellows Hall. The year before, she was in 
bed when the ball began, but she could hear the 
music. 

The ball! There was nothing like it in Frank¬ 
linville or the world. In winter Franklinville was 
little and cold, with double windows and storm-doors 
and bankings and snow and arctics and winter 
flannels—all wool, and they scratched; but in sum¬ 
mer it was full of pleasant things, picnics and mus¬ 
lin dresses and hammocks and flowers, and they all 
began with the ball. After it, summer was there. 
The graduating class gave the ball, but everybody 


i8 


GOING TOGETHER 


went. Both the Franklinville dressmakers made 
clothes for it for weeks ahead. Dresses were sent 
for from Franklin Center, from Boston. Carr’s 
Greenhouse sold out, and sent away for flowers. 

Sally Belle was going alone. Her father would 
escort her, and the Sewalls would keep an eye on 
her. 

Mr. Sewall was her father’s partner, Lillian 
Sewall was her best friend, and Jud Sewall was in 
the graduating class, and floor manager at the ball. 
It was enough to go like this; it was enough just to 
go. To get inside those closed doors, where any¬ 
thing might happen—to be there, at the ball. 

“Sally Belle.” 

“That’s my name.” 

“Don’t you want to see what I’ve got to show 
you?” 

“No. . . . You can whistle, Pig Plummer, 

but don’t sing.” Low muttering sounds, not entirely 
unlike The Georgia Camp-Meeting, were proceed¬ 
ing from Pig. 

“My throat’s my own,” he protested faintly, then 
was silent again. 

He felt quite nice and warm beside her, and it 


THE TWELVE-YEAR-OLD KID 19 


was colder now. By this time supper was over even 
at the Sewalls’, where they had it at seven and called 
it dinner. Jud was harnessing up to take the oldest 
Carr girl buggy riding; there were lights in the 
Sewalls’ barn. Now three girls, then two more, 
walked slowly past on their way to the post-office 
and trilled to Sally Belle. The street was waking 
up, as it always did after supper. 

And now, passing so quickly that Sally Belle 
scarcely saw them, though she stared after them 
hard, came six girls on bicycles. 

They swung grandly round the corner of High 
Street and swept down Main Street, over the river 
and up the hill, out of sight. They passed in a 
wide-spread even row. They wore white things 
that showed in the dark. One girl laughed as they 
passed. They were six, but they looked like more; 
girls and girls in the dark; a white army of girls. 

“Freaks,” muttered Pig jealously. 

“Freak yourself,” replied Sally Belle promptly, 
but the six needed no defense. They were the 
Happy Thought Club. 

Sally Belle knew them all. They were not two 
years older than she was. The others were in first- 


20 


GOING TOGETHER 


year high school and Madgie Carr was in grammar, 
in Sally Belle’s own class. But they were not like 
Sally Belle. They were not little girls. They were 
in society. They were society. Sally Belle was 
asked to some parties, and went; but no party was 
ever given without the six. It could not be. And 
they stayed until the end, and boys walked home 
with them. They curled their hair and wore high- 
heeled slippers and played drive whist. They called 
her the twelve-year-old kid. And they had, every 
one of them, even little Madgie Carr, a thing that 
Sally Belle wanted—wanted more than the ball, 
more than anything else in the world. 

There was a thing you did, called going together. 

That was what Sally Belle wanted. You went 
with a boy. He was your fellow then, and you 
were his girl. When you were old you got engaged 
and married. Engaged girls marked towels and 
napkins and had to be kissed. They never had any 
fun. Being engaged was stupid, but going together 
was beautiful. You had fun then; all the fun there 
was. You were not an odd girl. You were not 
left out. You could go to straw rides and barge 
rides, where there had to be even numbers. You 


THE TWELVE-YEAR-OLD KID 21 


could belong to a crowd. You had somebody to 
walk home with you, pay for your ticket at shows, 
send you valentines, candy at Christmas. You 
were—well—going together. 

Sally Belle did not know how this beautiful thing 
began. When you got engaged the man proposed 
to you. When you went with a boy, what hap¬ 
pened first? Did the boy walk up to you after a 
party and take your arm, and say, “Please, may I 
see you home?” Or ring the front door-bell and 
call on you? Her friends just opened the door and 
said her name. Who would the boy be? All the 
boys were going with somebody else, or were little 
boys, like Pig. Would it be an older boy? A boy 
in long pants? A boy from away? She did not 
know much about it. You could not ask questions. 
That was not fair. You had to wait and see. She 
would have long to wait. She was only the twelve- 
year-old kid. But when it came it would be the 
beginning of everything. It would open the doors 
of the world. 

A boy from away. That would be very romantic. 
That would be best. He would come to town on 
the late train. It was due now, at the Falls. He 


22 


GOING TOGETHER 


would come on a night like this, and she would be 
sitting here. He would drive down from the station 
in the hotel hack, and look out of the window and 
see her, and say- 

“I don’t have to sit here. Not all night.” 

“You don’t have to sit here at all, Pig.” 

“My room is as good as my company,” Pig sug¬ 
gested bitterly. 

His voice sounded funny and high. He was 
really angry, poor Pig. Sally Belle felt sorry for 
him. Where would he go nights after the new 
boy came? Where would he go to-morrow night? 
He would not have anywhere to go. He would 
miss her, but he would be pleased. He was her 
best friend, except Lillian. He would be pleased 
about the ball. 

“Pig, I’m sorry. I’ll talk now.” 

“Who to?” 

“You. Pig, I have got something to tell you. 
Something nice. You can’t come here to-morrow 
night.” 

“Can’t, hah ? Who says I can’t ?” 

“I do.” 


“The ground’s free.” 




THE TWELVE-YEAR-OLD KID 23, 


“I won’t be here.” 

“Maybe I don’t want to come. Maybe I’ve got 
a date to-morrow—a date with a girl.” 

“Don’t be silly. I won’t be here, because—be¬ 
cause, Pig”—Sally Belle drew a long lovely breath, 
and then said it—“Pig, I’m. going. I’m going to 
the graduation ball.” 

“To—the—what?” 

“The ball.” 

“Yes you are!” said Pig weakly. 

That was all he said. He leaned forward and 
put his elbows on his knees and dropped his head in 
his hands and sat very still. Sally Belle watched 
him calmly. He was surprised, of course. When 
her mother told her, at breakfast, she could not 
finish her cakes. But in a minute he would tell 
her how pleased he was. She wanted him to tell 
her. 

“Lost your tongue?” she said softly. 

He had slouched forward into a kind of heap. 
He was not whistling now. He was not moving 
at all. She pulled at his sleeve, but he pushed her 
hand away. 

“Pig.” 


24 


GOING TOGETHER 


“Well, what’s eating you?” he said without lift¬ 
ing his head. 

“Pig, don’t you feel good?” 

“Sure.” 

“Did—didn’t you hear what I told you?” 

“I’ve got ears.” 

“Pig, aren’t you glad?” 

“Much you care.” 

“Why, I do care, Pig. I do.” 

“If you don’t I can live.” 

“Pig, don’t be mean to-night. Be nice to me.” 

“Oh, you!” 

Pig got up and stood looking down at her. He 
stood with his feet wide apart and rocked back and 
forth in the way that she did not like, and poked 
his head forward. Suddenly Sally Belle could not 
see his face. There were tears in her eyes—hot 
tears. She winked them away. Pig was teasing 
her, trying to hurt her. He was not her best friend. 
He was not her friend at all. 

“You’re crying!” 

“I am not!” 

*‘You are. You always do. Cry-baby!” 


THE TWELVE-YEAR-OLD KID 25 


“I hate you!” 

They were both on their feet now, staring through 
the dark as if they could see each other plain. 
Sally Belle’s hands clenched. She would never 
forgive Pig—never. 

“Cry-baby! You can’t go to the ball, a kid like 
you. They won’t let you in. Who you going 
with?” 

“That’s my business.” 

“With a girl? With some other kid girl?” 

“Not with a girl.” 

“A boy?” 

“That’s telling.” 

“What boy?” Pig’s voice sounded thick, as if 
he were going to cry himself, only boys did not cry. 
“No boy would go to a dance with a kid like you. 
No boy would dance with you. I wouldn’t.” 

“You won’t get the chance.” 

“I don’t want it. I’ve got a date to-morrow 
night.” 

“Who with?” 

“Not a kid like you.” 

“Don’t you call me that! Don’t you dare!” 


26 


GOING TOGETHER 


“Kid! Twelve-year-old kid!” 

“You’re fat,” said Sally Belle wildly. “Fat— 
fat—fat!” 

“Kid!” 

“Harold Plummer, you go home!” 

Pig turned without another word and walked 
away from her. He did not walk very straight. 
When he stepped through the hedge a long branch 
flew up and hit his face. He broke it off and began 
to whistle very loud. He crossed his lawn and 
walked off down the street. You could hear the 
sound of his whistling die away: 

A meeting took place 
Of the co-o-lored race— 

Way down—in Georgia- 

“I don’t care,” said Sally Belle out loud; “I—I—I 
don’t care.” 

She did care. She cared very much. There was 
a lump in her throat and her eyes felt hot and her 
knees felt weak and trembly. Pig had spoiled the 
ball. He had spoiled everything. She hated him. 
She stood still and looked after him and tried not 
to cry. Then she dropped down on the grass and 



THE TWELVE-YEAR-OLD KID 27 


cuddled her cape tight round her and hid her face 
in it. After all, this was only a quarrel, a quarrel 
with Pig, and she had them every day. Pig was 
gone, and she was all safe and quiet, under her tree. 
The band in the square had stopped playing. The 
street was very still. She was all alone in the street, 
all alone in the world. She wanted to be. And 
the ball was coming nearer, nearer every minute. 
And that other thing, the big and beautiful thing 
that she wanted most in the world, was coming a 
little nearer too. 

Far-away up the track she heard a faint shrill 
sound. It came clear through the evening air; the 
late train, leaving the Falls. It would soon be here. 
She sat up and watched. The street looked empty 
and lonely. It felt late. The Palace Hotel looked 
as far off as the stars, and the stars looked very 
bright, like real gold or fairy gold. Suppose the 
new boy should come on the train to-night; a tall 
slender boy with light curly hair and blue eyes. 
He would drive past and look through the dark at 
her and say- 

“Half past eight, Sally Belle.” 

Mother was calling from the house. Sally Belle 



28 


GOING TOGETHER 


put both arms round her tree and hugged it tight 
and said just two words. 

They were beautiful, like a song, though she said 
them very softly: 

“Going together.” 


Ill 


THE BALL 

“Happy, Baby? Will you save me a dance? 
People don’t dance with their fathers ? I see. 
Wait down here for Lillian and don’t go inside till 
she comes. She’ll be here soon. The world is 
yours. Sure you’re happy? Then, good luck.” 

Father was leaving her on the steps of the hall. 
He held her hands tight, then dropped them and 
walked away very fast and did not look back. 
Father was very slender and tall. She was proud 
of him and he had little jokes with her and nobody 
else. He was sweet. But she was glad he was 
gone, for now she was really here and nothing could 
stop it. 

The day was over; morning at school, short 
like a dream, a nap when she could not sleep, 
meals she could not taste, and getting dressed to go, 
whjch was worst of all. Mother made her turn 
29 


30 


GOING TOGETHER 


round to be looked at, and took stitches and put in 
pins and basted a tuck in a petticoat and caught her 
powdering her nose with cornstarch and rubbed it 
off. 

“I don’t care what Lillian does; this is your nose,” 
she said: and: “Keep your skirts pulled down and 
don’t dance more than twice with the same boy. 
Evening parties are all wrong. They put boy-and- 
girl nonsense into children’s heads, and I can’t have 
that. Father spoils you. We ought not to let you 
g°” 

But she was here. She had on her white dress, 
and her braids were looped up with pink ribbons. 
She had fifty cents to pay for her ticket. She held 
it tight in her hand. She was at the ball. 

She drew back against the wall, out of the light 
from the doorway. She was happy, of course, but 
she did not feel happy yet; only excited and afraid, 
like before you spoke pieces at school. Things 
were happening fast, and making a great deal of 
noise. 

The hall was the center of the world. It was just 
half-way down Main Street; below was the square, 
then the bridge across the river, then Schoolhouse 


THE BALL 


3 1 


Hill, sloping up and away, mysterious with scatter¬ 
ing lights; above was upper Main Street, her own 
house, near, though just now it felt so far off; then 
the station lights, and Carr’s Hill beyond, where 
there were no lights at all. And down both hills 
and from dark little side-streets, from everywhere, 
people were coming to the hall. They came all at 
once, so that you could not watch them. 

They came in pairs, arm in arm, and whispered 
and giggled; in groups, and laughed loud and talked. 
They came in buggies, in a buckboard that rattled 
down Schoolhouse Hill, with girls sitting in each 
other’s laps, and boys standing on the steps; in the 
Carrs’ automobile, the only one in town. The horn 
was out of order and they were blowing a tin 
Fourth-of-July horn. Madgie Carr wore a pink 
worsted fascinator with crystal beads. 

Some of the boys waited outside the hall and 
smoked, but the girls all hurried in, holding their 
light skirts high. They went up the dusty, dimly 
lit stair to the hall above, and the lights and flowers 
and music. The band was tuning up; Higgins’ 
Orchestra, but they had a new violinist from out-of- 
town ; perhaps he made that long, clear, wailing note. 


32 


GOING TOGETHER 


Across the street on a high stone wall a row of little 
boys swung their feet and whistled and watched. 
She had sat there with Pig last year. Now she was 
grown up and going. 

Lillian was late. They were not coming so fast 
now. One of the double doors was shut. The band 
had stopped tuning up and was playing real tunes 
up-stairs. The crowd round the door was thinning 
out, and she could see boys she knew: Tissue Doyle, 
Stubby Giles. They would both dance with her. 
She did not expect to dance every dance. If you 
did not have a fellow you could not. Jud had the 
first dance with Minna Carr and the second with 
Lillian, but he would give her the third, and find 
some one to take her on for the first dance, the 
Grand March and Circle. He had promised. 

Freeman Foster, Jud’s friend, stopped to stamp 
out his cigarette and saw her and spoke to her. 

“Hello, kid. Does your mother know you’re 
out?” he said. 

“I—I guess so. Free, will you dance with me?” 

She ought not to have asked, but she wanted to 
know. She was afraid of Free, but she liked him. 


THE BALL 


33 


He was dark and tall, almost as tall as father. He 
looked very tall to-night. 

“Sure.” 

“Will you dance a round dance, Free?” 

“If I’ve got one. I’ll look at my card. See you 
later. You’d better get a move on, kid.” 

Lillian was very late, but she had promised to 
wait and it was pleasant out here. All the boys had 
gone in and both doors were shut. You heard the 
music very faintly. It was beautiful. It was some¬ 
thing in march time, something that Sally Belle 
knew. What was it? It stopped, and there was 
laughing and clapping; then it went on again. What 
were they doing up-stairs? Making out dance 
orders? It did not matter. She sat down on the 
steps. This was her ball. They were getting it 
ready for her. Pig had said that no boy would 
dance with her, and Free would, and Free led his 
class, and was going to teach in high school next 
year; every one would dance with her. 

Pig would not speak to her in school to-day, and 
she did not know where he was to-night. She did 
not care. 


34 


GOING TOGETHER 


Free was too old for her, of course, but perhaps 
when the new boy came, the boy from away, her 
boy, he would look like Free, and have dark hair, 
not light. 

It was very pleasant out here, but how quiet it 
was! Where was Lillian? 

She stood up and stared at the windows above 
her. They were corridor windows outside the hall. 
They were brightly lighted and stood out square and 
big, and no people passed them. They were all in¬ 
side, in the hall. No new people had come while she 
sat there, not one since the doors were shut. All 
the little boys but one were gone from the wall 
across the street. He got down and walked off into 
the dark. Up-stairs the faint music stopped, and 
just as it stopped she knew what tune it was. It 
was the march, the High School Cadets’ March, the 
tune for the Grand March and Circle. They played 
it every year. Then—then the first dance was over. 
The ball—her ball—had begun without her. She 
pulled at the big closed doors and pushed through 
them and ran up-stairs. 

The hall door was closed and the corridor was 
empty. There was a table draped in rose-and-gray 


THE BALL 


35 


bunting, the class colors, where they had sat to take 
tickets, but no one was sitting there. The door 
would not open. She knocked. Lillian had come 
early and was waiting for her inside. She had 
missed only one dance. She was not so very late. 
She had been here to dancing school, but she had 
never been here at night before. It looked different, 
large and strange. The floor was scrubbed and 
smelled of soap, but it was dusty again. The wall 
lamps were turned high and smelled of kerosene. 
She stood in a circle of bright light, but there were 
shadows on the stairs below, and dark shadows on 
the stairs above, that led to the gallery entrance. 
There was a noise of talking in the hall, but no 
music now. The noise went on just as if she had 
not knocked. It did not stop or change. She 
knocked again, but nobody heard her or came. 

This was her ball and they would not let her in. 
Lillian had run away from her. Lillian did not 
want her. Nobody wanted her. She could not walk 
in there alone, among all those strange talking 
people. She could not stay out here. Somebody 
would come and find her here alone and late for the 
ball, and laugh at her. She had waited outside and 


3^ 


GOING TOGETHER 


let the ball begin. Somebody was coming now. She 
heard steps down-stairs. She shook the door and 
rattled it. 

“Who’s there? Use side doors coming in. This 
door is locked,” called a voice inside. It was not 
Jud’s voice. She did not know who it was. “Chase 
yourself, you kids, or I’ll come out and attend to 
you. Micky Murphy, I hear you. This will be all 
from you.” 

Little boys rang door-bells at houses where there 
were parties, and knocked on the windows and ran; 
little boys from Paddy Lane. That was what they 
thought she was; and this was her ball! 

“It’s me!” she tried to say. “Me!” But her 
voice would not come. There was a rattling of keys. 
Somebody was coming out, somebody very angry, 
and people were coming up the stairs. They were 
almost here. On the floor above it looked dark. 
The door was opening in front of her. She put 
both hands against it and pushed it shut, and turned 
and ran away up the gallery stairs. 

Up here. Only one lamp was lighted and it 
was turned low. There was nobody here. The 
gallery door was shut. At her left, in the cor- 


THE BALL 


37 


ner, there was a little door, which was shut, too, but 
not locked. It stuck, but came open, and she slipped 
inside. Her skirt caught on a nail and tore when 
she pulled it away. She shut the door tight and sat 
down on the floor against it. She was in the closet 
under the eaves. She had found it one day with 
Pig. It was big, though you could not stand up 
straight. It was full of old magazines and lantern 
slides and other things that you could not see now. 
You could not see the walls, it was so dark. She 
listened. Somebody came out of the hall and ran 
down the stairs to the street door and came back, 
stopping to talk to the new people who had come, 
then they all went into the hall again. Nobody fol¬ 
lowed her. Nobody knew she was here. There 
was a hole in the wall of this closet and you could 
see the hall through it, but she did not want to look. 
She sat still, crying a little. 

This ball was not her ball. She hated it. She 
was safe, but she did not know what to do next. 
She could not come out, all dirty and torn, and 
dance, not if Free asked her, not if the boy from 
away came out of nowhere and found her. She did 
not want to dance, not ever again. But she could 


38 GOING TOGETHER 

not go home. Not yet. She might meet some one 
on the stairs. What would they say at home if she 
came back so soon ? She could never tell them that 
she hid in here. She could never tell any one. She 
would have to stay here a long time—until the ball 
was done. 

She stopped crying and sat up and found a pile of 
newspapers and pulled them under the peep-hole and 
kneeled there and looked at the ball. 

It was all there. She and Pig had worked at this 
hole and made it bigger. It was round, like a pic¬ 
ture frame, and the picture was the whole ball. 
People danced off into corners, out of sight, but they 
had to come back again. You could not see faces 
very plainly, but you could see lovely colors, pink, 
rose and blue, pale and soft, like flowers. You 
could see bits of wall, draped with bunting, and part 
of the stage, banked with green, and the orchestra, 
sitting behind it, just as if they did not have any 
legs, and their arms going back and forth when they 
played. You could see everything. You did not get 
tired of looking. You could not look away. It 
made you dizzy to look, but you rested and looked 


THE BALL 


39 


again. You could not tell how long you had been 
looking. You looked and looked. 

The people down there were not like real people 
at all. It was all like a show set going for you to 
see, as if you played with dolls and they came alive. 
One girl had a white ruffled dress and a shiny 
pompadour. It was Lillian. How pretty she was! 
She was waltzing with a tall dark-haired boy, but it 
was not Free. Free did not seem to be there at all. 
Madgie Carr’s green dress was too bright. Her 
blonde curls bobbed when she danced. A new dance 
was starting now. The floor filled with people push¬ 
ing one another about, then they straightened out 
into two long lines, facing each other. Late couples 
crowded in. The benches along the walls were 
empty. Everybody danced this. It was a contra 
dance. 

She had never seen one before. They were not 
taught at dancing school. They were old-fashioned 
and common. But this one was beautiful. The 
music was queer, but you liked it. It got into your 
head and stayed there. There was not much tune 
to it, but there was a splendid swing, a steady beat, 


40 


GOING TOGETHER 


like a big watch ticking. Old Higgins, the orchestra 
leader, called off. He was a funny little man, with 
pink cheeks and waxed mustache, but he did not 
look so funny standing up there very straight in his 
tight black clothes. His voice was big. You could 
almost make out what he said, up here. They all did 
just what he said, the same things over and over, 
as if they would go on forever and not stop. It 
looked silly, but you wanted to do it too. You felt 
as if you were doing it. Your feet moved. Your 
heart beat hard and you had to put your hands on it. 

“Swing partners!” You held your partner very 
tight, and went round and round, with your hair fly¬ 
ing and your skirts sticking out. Then the two 
lines got all mixed up and you got lost in them, then 
they came straight and you swung down the center 
with a splendid rush, as if nothing could stop you. 
And then you swung partners again. That was the 
best of it. It looked wonderful—so light and free. 
The girls’ faces got very red. They laughed. She 
could hear Madgie Carr’s laugh. It was very shrill 
and high. She loved this dance. 

It stopped and she dropped down on the floor, 
away from the peep-hole, and put her head on the 


THE BALL 


4i 


newspapers and shut her eyes. She was tired, just 
as if she had danced. Another dance began, a waltz, 
but she did not want to watch. The waltz was some 
very old tune; the music whispered and sang; it was 
very sweet. All the noise of the ball, the music and 
talking and calling, sounded pleasant up here—a big 
noise, but dull, like the sea a long way off. But the 
ball was up here too. It was everywhere. Couples 
were sitting out in the gallery, more and more of 
them all the time. When you kept still, like this, 
you could almost hear what they said. Once or 
twice steps had come up the gallery stairs and gone 
away again, and there had been talking out there. 
Some one was out there now. She heard the floor 
creak and smelled cigarette smoke. She lay very 
still. She heard more steps on the stairs, and then 
two voices talking. One voice she did not know, 
but the other voice was Free’s. 

“Ah, there!” 

“Greetings. What’s the idea, Free? Holding 
your own hand? Wake up and join the ladies. 
This is the second extra.” 

“Sure it is. I had it saved for a kid. She asked 
for it. Now I can’t locate her. That lets me out.” 


42 


GOING TOGETHER 


“Oh, you cradle-snatcher!” 

“Well, she’s a good little kid. . . . Say, listen 
here. Old Higgins wants-” 

They moved away, so that she could not hear, 
then off down the stairs. She curled up on the 
newspapers. She felt very comfortable. If she 
were at home she would sleep now. Free had saved 
her a dance. He did not know that she was not 
there. He did not miss her. But she did not mind 
that. She did not mind anything. Things looked 
bad, but they would get better. They always did. 
The waltz music was sweet, but it was hard to hear. 
It was faint and kept getting fainter. She could not 
hear it at all. 

This ball was not her ball, but it was beautiful. 

She rubbed her eyes and sat up. She knew at 
once where she was, and came wide awake all at 
once, but she had slept. She had gone to sleep in 
here and she had slept a long time. The floor was 
very hard and the newspapers smelled musty under 
her head. She felt rested all over, but stiff and 
sore. She looked through the hole again. She felt 
frightened at first when she looked. The big room 



THE BALL 


43 


was empty. The round frame was there, but the 
picture was gone. All the gay-colored dancing 
people were gone. Windows were open to air the 
hall, and the bunting flapped in a little breeze that 
was coming in. It looked wilted and dirty; rose 
and gray were ugly colors. 

What did it mean? Was the party over? People 
slept all day sometimes when they were too tired and 
nobody waked them. How long had she slept ? Pig 
said there were mice in here. Sometimes people got 
shut up in places like this and died, like the bride 
in The Mistletoe Bough. 

But she could hear sounds down-stairs, and now 
a small squeaky sound that came from the hall— 
from the stage. Old Higgins was sitting there all 
alone, tuning his violin. His collar was wilted. He 
looked tired and very old indeed. She remembered 
now; this was the long intermission for supper, and 
this year supper was served down-stairs in the 
library and reading room. The two rooms opened 
into each other. They were the whole ground floor. 
Everybody was down there now, eating, but if Hig¬ 
gins was tuning up they would be back soon. 

This was a good time to go, and she must go now. 


44 


GOING TOGETHER 


She took one last look at the place where the ball 
had ’been. 

“Good-by,” she said out loud, and old Higgins 
looked straight at her across the hall, just as if he 
heard. She got the closet door open and gathered 
her torn skirt round her and held it high, and went 
out into the silent corridor and down to the closed 
door of the hall. She tried to go quietly but boards 
creaked under her feet. The lights hurt her eyes 
after the dark of the closet. She stood still. In 
the supper rooms below they were not making much 
noise but they did not hear her. Nobody came out. 
She could get away. She did something without 
knowing why. She untied her handkerchief and 
took out the fifty-cent piece that was knotted there 
and laid it on the table by the hall door. It was 
all by itself there, looking quite bright and big. The 
money box was gone. She went on down the stairs 
and out, closing the doors gently behind her. She 
had been to the ball. 


IV 


AFTER THE BALL 

It seemed a long way up the street. She hurried, 
but her feet felt heavy. The wind blew cool in her 
face and felt good. She could hear the town clock 
striking over on Church Street and it sounded 
farther off—miles away. It was striking ten. She 
had never been out alone so late at night before, but 
things looked just the same. The Palace Hotel 
lights and the Sewalls’ porch lantern were burning 
last night and they were burning now. She was 
glad to get home. She would tell father and mother 
all about the ball; she would have to, but she would 
tell every one else that she was sick and could not go. 
She would tell father first. Pie would be home 
soon. She would wait under the big tree for him. 

Her own front yard looked just as it always did. 
Up in her corner room a lamp was lighted and both 
windows were open for a cross draft. The white 
45 


46 


GOING TOGETHER 


ruffled curtains were blowing. It was dark on the 
lawn and darker under the tree, black velvet dark. 
She crossed the lawn and stood looking down into it. 
Something moved there. Some one was sitting 
there. Had she dreamed the whole ball? Was it 
last night instead of this? He was sitting there just 
as he always sat, hunched into a kind of heap, with 
his head poked forward. He made room for her 
but did not speak, and she sat down beside him. It 
was Pig. 

“Hello. You here?” she said. 

“No, I’m in Africa. What are you doing here? 
Ball over?” 

“No. What are you doing here?” 

“Nothing.” 

“How long have you been here?” 

“Since eight,” said Pig in a loud cheerful voice. 

“What for?” 

“For nothing. Can’t I sit here if I want to?” 

“I don’t care.” 

“I don’t have to sit here.” 

“Yes, you do. Pig, I want you to. I—I’m glad 
you came.” 


AFTER THE BALL 


47 


She was glad. He looked little and funny and 
fat, and it would be awkward explaining about the 
ball, but she was glad to see him. She wanted him 
to be there. She moved close to him. He felt warm 
beside her, and behind her she could feel the firm 
strong trunk of her tree. 

“It’s nice here,” she said. 

<f Was—was it all right?” 

“What ?” 

“Oh, the ball.” Pig asked as if he did not care 
very much, but his voice sounded low and a little 
queer. 

“The ball was lovely,” Sally Belle said firmly. 

“What made you come home early?” 

“I thought I would. I—I felt sick. I feel bet¬ 
ter now.” 

“Did you dance every dance?” 

“Yes.” 

“Extras?” 

“Some.” 

“Who with?” 

“Oh, everybody. Free Foster.” 

“Who else?” 


48 


GOING TOGETHER 


“I don’t know.” 

“You’d better know. You didn’t dance all the 
extras with Free?” 

“Yes,” said Sally Belle recklessly, “I did. And 
the supper dance too. He—he said I was a good 
little kid.” 

“I’ll knock his block off.” 

“Harold Plummer!” 

“I will. Fool! Stuck-up prig! Teaching school 
next year. I’ll teach him!” 

“What—what for?” 

“Fool! Can’t get a girl himself, and then thinks 
he can dance with another fellow’s girl. Thinks he 
can dance with you, when you and I are going 
together.” 

“You and I are what?” 

“Going together. I speak English, don’t I? I 
came over here last night to get you to go to the ball 
with me. They told me I could go and take you. 
They gave me the money and I came right over to 
show it to you. You wouldn’t let me ask you. You 
said you were going. I wouldn’t go without you. 
I had to get dressed up and pretend to go. I can’t 
go home till it’s over. I’ve got to stay here.” 


AFTER THE BALL 


49 


“I didn’t know that.” 

“You know it now. I’ll knock Free Foster’s 
block off. And I’ll never speak to you again.” 

Pig did not mean that, but he acted as if he did. 
He did not speak to her again. He did not speak at 
all. He did not move. He just sat there, angry. 
Well, he had talked enough. What things he had 
said! She put her arm over her face and turned 
away from him, against the tree. She felt tired all 
over, down to her toes, more tired than she ever 
had been. Everything that had happened to-night 
was all wrong. Everything else was all wrong and 
everything hurt her. She did not know what hurt 
most. She wanted to cry and she could not cry. 

She could hear Pig breathing hard beside her. 
He wanted to make up. In the tree above her she 
could hear the wind blowing the leaves, making 
queer little crying noises, like somebody dying a 
long way off. It was only the wind, but the boy 
from away was dead. She would never see him. 
Down in the hall they were playing the oldest and 
sweetest waltz of all. She heard the last strains of 
it, very faint, as if it were dying too. 

The ball was a beautiful ball and she had been to 


5o 


GOING TOGETHER 


it in a beautiful way. Nobody had ever been to a 
ball like that before. Nobody would ever know just 
how beautiful it was. It was her own secret, all 
warm in her heart. She felt for Pig’s hand and 
found it and held it tight, then she turned and looked 
at him. Even in the dark he looked fat, but there 
was something nice about the way he poked his head 
forward. Nobody else did it. She liked it. 

He was not angry now. He was ashamed, and 
he was afraid to speak until she spoke to him. Poor 
pig. 

“Pm all right,” she said. 

“You crying?” 

“No.” 

“You can cry if you want to.” 

“I don’t, Pig. You’re not mad now, are you?” 

“No.” 

“Pig, I didn’t go to the ball.” 

“You didn’t?” 

“No. I’ll tell you all about it sometime. I don’t 
want to talk about it now. You don’t care, do you? 
And you won’t ever tell that I didn’t go ?” 

“Cross my heart.” 

“That’s good. . . . Pig, did you mean what 


AFTER THE BALL 


5i 


you said just now? That you and I were—you 
know—going together ?” 

“Sure.” 

“Do people know it ?” 

“Sure.” 

“Madgie Carr?” 

“Sure. She’s getting up a whist club, and going 
to ask you and me to join.” 

“She is ? Pig, how long have we been-” 

“Oh, always.” 

“We—have?” 

“Sure.” 

“Oh!” 

There was silence under the tree. Pig’s hand felt 
hot and Sally Belle drew hers away, then she put it 
back again. Across the street the lights of the Pal¬ 
ace Hotel were going out one by one, like stars. 
You could hear no music now, but the lights in the 
hall still burned. You could see them through the 
trees. They looked very far away. Sally Belle 
sighed. 

“Well, Pig,” she said, “I’m glad we are.” 

“Glad we’re what, kid ?” 

“Going together.” 



V 


T. O. A. 

The Three of a Kind Club was meeting with 
Madgie Carr. It met Saturday afternoons at two, 
and Sally Belle was late; but she stood before her 
dresser, with the high tilted mirror, and looked up 
and in. The dresser and the things in her room 
were all large and dark and old, but the mirror was 
beautiful. It was set deep in the frame so that you 
looked far in. The glass was blurred and dim, and 
it was loose in the frame and moved while you 
looked. It moved just enough, like something that 
was alive and could not quite keep still. There was 
snow on the lawn outside and snow on the long bare 
branches of the big tree near the window. The sun 
was bright on the snow, and made little wavering 
patches of light on the clouded glass. They twinkled 
like candlelight. 

Sally Belle was a small, soft little girl with a 
fuzzy red tarn and a shaggy coat and skirts that 
52 


T. O. A. K. 


53 


were an inch shorter than her best friend Lillian’s, 
and brown hair in two long fat braids that would 
not curl or stay straight. She was the youngest 
freshman in high school, but you could not see all 
that in the mirror; you saw just a face—a dim 
vague face that smiled at you and looked at you. It 
was your face and not your face. 

If you half closed your eyes and looked it might 
be a stranger’s face, the face of somebody almost 
beautiful, somebody quite old—eighteen. It had 
pink cheeks and round bright eyes. 

“Eyes Like the Sea” whispered Sally Belle. That 
was the title of a book she had never read. “Was— 
was this the face that wrecked a thousand ships?” 
she added after a minute. 

That was a quotation, she did not know from 
what, but she loved it. Now she came close to the 
mirror and made her voice very low, so that she 
hardly heard it, and shut her eyes when she spoke, 
because the next words were so hard to say, so 
solemn, almost like swearing. 

“Walter,” she said then—“Walter Clark, dear 
Walter, dearest, my dear,” and again, for she liked 
the sound of it: “Dear—dear-” 



54 


GOING TOGETHER 


She listened. Mother was safe down-stairs mak¬ 
ing cake for the village-improvement meeting. She 
jerked open the dresser drawer; not the top 
drawer—mother opened that too often—but the 
third drawer, the one that stuck, the underclothes 
drawer. It was packed tight with things in neat 
piles, ugly winter things made of heavy long cloth 
and trimmed with Hamburg edging instead of lace. 
Under them was a blue sachet, scented with orris 
instead of real scent. Under that was white 
printer’s paper; under that a layer of newspaper; 
and under everything else a collection of small scat¬ 
tered objects—a stiff cabinet photograph, tintypes, 
two Japanese napkins, a paper rose. She groped 
among them expertly and pulled out a small red 
book. She held it against her heart and looked into 
the mirror and sighed deeply; then she opened it 
and began to read, turning the pages tenderly, and 
whispering phrases and words to herself. You could 
not say them out loud—they were too sweet. 

“When the lamps are lit in the mirrored room, 
Walter, my Walter ——” 

The book was bright red, like blood—heart’s 
blood—with a small red pencil tied to it that was 



T. 0. A. K. 


55 


worn to a stub already. It was a memorandum book, 
and it was an advertisement for common-sense 
shoes. There was advertising printed on half the 
pages, but she had pasted them together two by two, 
so that only blank pages showed. She had writ¬ 
ten on almost all—on the first page, at the top— 
“Saw him,” and under that a list of dates. Some 
of the dates were starred. The stars meant “Saw 
and talked with him.” After the dates came pages 
of writing, cramped and close, but neat. Pig had 
given her the book last week out of his father’s store. 
Since then no eye but hers had seen it; not Lillian’s, 
not Madgie Carr’s. It was her book, her very own. 
On the cover in silver letters was the motto for the 
shoes—what they printed on the boxes to sell them; 
but under it she had written something else in white 
ink: 

Humanity Requires It. 
i. e .—some outlet to my emotions. 

It looked quite neat and very beautiful. 

“When the lamps are lit in the mirrored room— 
gloom—perfume—tomb,” said Sally Belle. That 
was not a quotation. It was a poem—a poem she 


GOING TOGETHER 


56 

was writing herself. Two months ago she had 
never written a poem, and now this book was half 
full. She chewed the red pencil hard. 

“Doom,” she began doubtfully, “bloom, groom, 
bridegroom - ” 

She stopped and closed the book tight. Mother 
was coming to the foot of the stairs. 

“Have you gone ?” mother called. 

“No.” 

That always seemed a silly question to ask, and 
any question, any talk at all, drove the poems away. 
But they always came back, and the next line would 
come, too, though it was coming so hard. She 
kissed the book solemnly, once, and tried to push 
it into her coat pocket, which was too small for 
it. You could not hide things in your bosom when 
your clothes all buttoned in the kiddish way that 
her plaid dress did. You could not hide things 
under the rug—it was sweeping day. And the 
dresser drawer would not come open. She pulled 
her skating bag down from the closet door and 
dropped the book in with the skates and knotted the 
draw string. The book would be safe, and per¬ 
haps—just perhaps—she would show it to Lillian 



T. O. A. K. 


57 


—Lillian, not Madgie Carr. When the poems were 
printed they would be dedicated to Lillian. 

Mother was calling again. She swung the bag 
over her shoulder and hurried down-stairs. Mother 
stopped her and looked at her. 

“Your cheeks are flushed. You ought to be out 
in this nice fresh air,” she said. “What were you 
doing up-stairs so long ?” 

“Nothing.” 

“You have your skates. That’s right. You and 
Marguerite Carr and Lillian spend too much time in 
the house. Let me see the bag. It wants mending.” 
“No!” 

“No what, daughter?” 

“No, I thank you. I can’t wait. I’m late to the 
club.” 

“What club?” 

“The T. O. A. IC.” 

“What does that stand for?” 

“Nothing. It’s the name of the club. A—a club’s 
got to be named.” 

“What is your club for?” 

“Nothing. It’s a club, that’s all. It’s a secret 
club.” 


58 


GOING TOGETHER 


“Don’t you want to tell secrets to your mother?” 

“I can’t. I promised. Can I go now?” 

Mother sat down on the stairs and folded her 
hands upon her apron. 

“Sally Belle,” she said, “I tell father we ought 
not to let you go to this Clark boy’s party.” 

“You promised.” 

“That is not a nice thing to say to your mother. 
These Clarks are new people. They have not lived 
here two months. Mrs. Clark is active in church 
work, but she wears very large hats. Mr. Clark 
has good manners, but there is no room for an 
insurance agency in Franklinville. And this boy 
Walter -” 

“It’s his birthday party. He’s fourteen. And it’s 
not till two weeks from to-night. And you prom¬ 
ised. You did! Oh, mother!” 

“This boy Walter is too old for you. So is Mar¬ 
guerite Carr—an affected little girl. Now Harold 
Plumber, or Pig—why will you call him that?—is 
a nice little friend for you. He just drove past in a 
sleigh. If he had seen you he might have given 
you a ride. Mother likes you to play with little 



T. O. A. K. 


59 


boys, you know—play with them sensibly, just as 
if they were little girls.” 

“They aren’t.” 

“What’s that, dear? Don’t mutter. Enunciate 
clearly. You are a good little girl, but you are a 
very secretive little girl. All the Smiths are secre¬ 
tive. You are like your father. He says you are 
passing through a phase just now which is harm¬ 
less but painful while it lasts, like grippe or the 
measles. You are certainly very nervous, and you 
get excited about little things. But I shall talk with 
your father about this party. Run along now and 
get some fresh air.” 

“Yes, mother.” 

“I don’t like this club of yours. I shall be glad 
when it breaks up.” 

Sally Belle shut the door gently behind her. If 
you banged it mother called you back. Mother was 
sweet, but she talked too much. If you did not an¬ 
swer, but just said yes and no in the right places, 
she stopped sooner. While she talked Sally Belle 
had been watching for something. She opened the 
storm-door a crack and looked, then started out of 


6o 


GOING TOGETHER 


the yard and up the street. She saw it then, but 
it was too late to go back. She stood still and 
waited. A sleigh was coming toward her down 
Carr’s Hill. It was a small yellow sleigh with loud 
jangling bells and a large high-shouldered white 
horse. The horse was Queen Bess, the sleigh was 
the Plummers’ sleigh, and a fat little boy was driv¬ 
ing. He wore a red toboggan cap and a blue Mack¬ 
inaw, both too tight, so that they made him look 
much fatter, and he was very angry. You could 
see that a long way off—he sat up so straight. He 
drove up and stopped and raised the fur robe to 
make room for her, but did not speak. 

“Hello!” she said. “Hello, Pig! Going riding?” 

“Me? No, I’m going after blueberries. Get in.” 

“Pig, I told you I can’t go riding to-day. You 
don’t have to get mad. I’ve got another engage¬ 
ment. I can’t!” 

“Going skating?” 

“I may and I may not.” 

“Yes, you are! I know where you are going, and 
Tissue Doyle knows, and Stubby Giles knows.” 

“Let them! It’s no disgrace.” 

“Well, I can take you there, can’t I ? There’s no 


T. O. A. K. 


61 


law against it. You’ve got to get there. You 
can’t fly.” 

“No,” said' Sally Belle uncertainly. 

“Get in here. I’ve got a bone to pick with you.” 

Sally Belle sighed and slipped into the warm place 
beside him. He tucked her in very tight and started 
Queen Bess up Main Street, clucking very loud 
to her. He looked straight ahead as he drove, and 
his eyes looked large and round. They always did 
when he was angry, and his chin wiggled. He could 
not help it. It was wiggling now. There was a 
quarrel coming, but it had to come sometime. They 
turned into High Street, where it was clear of snow 
and good for trotting, and Queen Bess always 
walked. Then Pig spoke, very slowly and solemnly: 

“I’m not mad. I’m hurt.” 

“What hurt you?” Pig had stopped as if he had 
nothing more to say. 

“Hurt, that’s what I am. And I won’t stand 
much more.” 

“Pig, I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Stubby Giles and Tissue Doyle and I won’t stand 
much more. That’s what I mean. Stub won’t 
stand much more from Madgie, Tish won’t stand 


62 


GOING TOGETHER 


much more from Lillian and I won’t stand much 
more from you. When a fellow is going with a girl 
he has got some rights.” 

“Who says he hasn’t?” 

“He—he wants the pleasure of her society. 
When a girl won’t hardly talk to him at recess, but 
stays in the cloakroom with girls and giggles and 
won’t come out—when a girl stays cooped up all 
Saturday afternoon doing the Lord knows what, 
and calls it a club-” 

“It is a club.” 

“What’s the name of it?” 

“I won’t tell you.” 

“What do you do at it?” 

“That’s our business.” 

“Will you let Stub and Tish and me join?” 

“We can’t. It’s a girls’ club. It’s a secret club.” 

Pig’s chin wiggled. 

“When a fellow is going with a girl,” he began, 
“and the girl has secrets and won’t tell them and 
won’t go riding and dodges into the house when she 
sees a fellow coming—and a fellow is going with 
a girl-” 




T. O. A. K. 


63 


“If you mean you and me,” said Sally Belle with 
dignity, “say you and me and don’t talk in hints. I 
don’t like hints.” 

“You,” said Pig bitterly; “you and your club! 
Your club and your Walter Clark!” 

“Pig, don’t start that again!” 

“Walter Clark! Sissy Clark! Smart Aleck! 
Fool! Thinks he can get any girl in town.” 

“He can.” 

“Has he got a girl to go with ? Has he ? He has 
not! Thinks he’s too good for all the girls—too 
good to speak to common folks, too good to join a 
class in high school. Takes a special course and 
thinks he’s in a class by himself. Walter Clark! 
Sis Clark!” 

“If he hears you call him that you’ll be sorry.” 

“I will, will I?” 

“And if I was going with a girl and wanted to be 
jealous I’d take somebody the girl had spoken to 
more than six times,” said Sally Belle calmly. “The 
—the one you are talking about, he wouldn’t look 
at me.” 

“Will you answer me two questions?” 


64 


GOING TOGETHER 


“If I feel like it.” 

“Has your club got anything to do with this Wal¬ 
ter Clark fellow?” 

“How could it? It’s a girls’ club.” 

“Have you or have you not got a crush on Wal¬ 
ter Clark?” 

“I have not.” 

“Will you cross your heart and say that ?” 

“No, it’s kiddish to cross your heart.” 

“Will you resign from your darn fool club and 
promise never to speak to Walter Clark again?” 

“Don’t be silly!” 

“Will you?” 

“No!” 

“This is the last time I’ll ask you.” 

“It’s not the first time.” 

“Well, it’s the last time all right.” Pig’s chin 
did not wiggle. He made a great effort and kept 
it stiff and still. “Now you can take the conse¬ 
quences.” 

“What consequences ?” 

“I don’t know,” said Pig frankly; “I don’t know 
what we’ll do, but I know when we’ll do it. Two 


T. O. A. K. 


65 


weeks from to-day, the day he’s going to have his 
party—or thinks he is. That’s when, if you want 
to know.” 

“I don’t,” said Sally Belle. 

“Stub and Tish and I have got together on this, 
and Stub and Tish and I won’t stand any more.” 

“Stub and Tish and you are silly little boys,” said 
Sally Belle sweetly. 

“All right for you, Miss Smith!” 

“All right for you, Mr. Plummer!” 

“Come on, Baby! Come on, Bess!” 

Pig talked to Bess only when he was angry. She 
did not need it. She always took her own pace. 
She swung with a plunging lope through the cross¬ 
cut to the Carrs’, brought up with a jerk under the 
porte-cochere and stood with her head hung down. 
The porte-cochere was yellow and white and large, 
like the house, and it was the only porte-cochere in 
town, but Bess never looked happy there. Pig had 
not spoken again, and did not help Sally Belle out. 
He went down the long drive and out of sight, 
sitting up very straight and talking in a low angry 
voice to Queen Bess. Poor Pig! Two months ago 


66 


GOING TOGETHER 


she used to cry when she quarreled with Pig—two 
little months ago. She was a child then. She gave 
the T. O. A. K. whistle, one long note and two short, 
and opened the Carrs’ front door. 


VI 


PARLIAMENTARY LAW 

It was dark in the Carrs’ front hall, and you 
could see the lights in the room at the end. They 
showed under the crack of the door. She dropped 
her things in a heap on the hatrack and tiptoed 
toward the door. It was locked; that was why they 
met here. No other member of the T. O. A. K. had 
a door that would lock. She gave the signal knock, 
like the whistle, one long rap and two short, then 
announced herself in a whisper, with her face close 
to the keyhole: 

“Pixie!” 

“Nixie and Trixie!” said a voice inside—Madgie 
Carr’s voice, but she could make it sound quite dif¬ 
ferent—mysterious and low. “Give the password.” 

“Constancy!” 

“Lock, lock, double lock!” said the voice, and the 
door opened and closed quickly behind her. She 
67 


68 


GOING TOGETHER 


was in the Carrs’ play room. Mrs. Carr would call 
it that still and would not put away Madgie’s dolls; 
but she was also in the clubroom of the T. O. A. K. 

Sally Belle drew a long breath of delight. What 
a clubroom it was! This was the seventh meeting, 
but she was not used to it yet. It had never been 
so impressive, never so finished in effect as to-day. 
The white hard light of the sun on the snow could 
not get in here. The blinds were shut and every 
curtain was drawn—green shades, white shades, lace 
curtains and heavy plush, pulled tight over all. The 
room was dark, so dark that things that were 
ugly looked mysterious instead. The blackboard, 
the davenport with broken springs, Madgie’s 
dolls’ house with a sheet thrown over it. It might 
be anything—a dead person under the sheet. 
The darkness was faintly lit with candlelight. 
There were three candles, one for each member. 
They were stuck on white saucers and arranged in 
an exact triangle on a round table in the center of 
the room. Inside the ring of candles were a black 
leather photograph frame, closed, so that the pic¬ 
ture in it did not show, a black-covered book, closed 


PARLIAMENTARY LAW 


69 


and tied with a black ribbon, and a pressed-glass 
vase in which three joss sticks were burning. The 
table and the three chairs that were placed at it were 
all draped with black; a camel’s-hair shawl, an old 
silk wrapper and five yards of new black cambric 
bought with the club funds; but they were all the 
same black by candlelight—a beautiful dead black. 
Best of all, round this table stood the three members 
of the T. O. A. K. 

Their right hands were clasped in the secret grip 
of greeting with which their ceremonies began, their 
eyes reverently fixed on the black photograph 
frame, their faces interesting and pale in the flicker¬ 
ing candlelight. The girl with the small pointed 
face and big brown eyes and tightly curled hair was 
Madgie Carr—Mad^ie, a superior being, a leader 
of society, an oldei girl, and yet Sally Belle’s own 
friend. The girl with the beautiful face and golden 
hair rolled back in a smooth high pompadour was 
Sally Belle’s best friend, her Lillian; and the other 
girl was her own self, Sally Belle Smith. 

Sally Belle, once the twelve-year-old kid, and 
still called kid for a nickname; Sally Belle, in so- 


70 


GOING TOGETHER 


ciety now and safe in this inner circle, the envied 
of all society. It was too good to be true, but it 
was true. 

“The meeting will come to order,” Madgie said. 
The three hands unclasped, three black chairs were 
drawn back and the T. O. A. K. sat down. “Trixie 
will preside.” 

“It’s my turn, Madgie—I mean Trixie,” said 
Sally Belle faintly. 

“Pixie is late and has lost her turn to preside,” 
Madgie announced formally. 

“Well, I couldn’t help it. I had a fight with Pig. 
He’s sore at us. Stub and Tish are too. That’s 
why I didn’t call for Lillian—Nixie.” 

“Pixie will come to order,” said Madgie firmly, 
“and stop talking. Trixie will take the chair. As 
we are going to-stop early and make fudge, I will 
omit the minutes of the last meeting.” 

“Oh, read the constitution,” said Sally Belle—“I 
mean, Pixie moves that the constitution be read. 
Now, Lil—Nixie-” 

“Nixie will stop stepping on Pixie’s toe,” said 
the presiding officer. “I know every time you do 
it. Let her have the constitution read, Lil. She 


PARLIAMENTARY LAW 


7i 


wrote it. I’ve got something to read by and by that 
I wrote myself. Is this motion seconded?” 

“I suppose so.” 

“Nixie seconds the motion,” the presiding officer 
translated. She opened the black-covered book and 
read fast, keeping a severe eye on the other two 
club women: 

T. O. A. K. Constitution and Charter 

We the undersigned, Nixie, Pixie and Trixie, 
life and charter members of the T. O. A. K., or 
Three of a Kind Club, do solemnly promise and 
swear these three things: 

First, we will be true to the subject of this club. 
We will never marry or get engaged to anybody but 
him till death do us part. 

Second, we will faithfully note down and report 
every time he speaks to us or we see him, and meet 
once a week for the purpose of telling one another 
about it. We will name all four of our bedposts 
after him every night, sleep with a picture of him 
under our pillow, or a picture that looks like him 
if we can’t get a real one, and will otherwise do all 
we can to show and promote our affection and re¬ 
spect for the subject of this club. 

Third- 

The presiding officer stopped, for at this point 
the constitution stopped too. 



72 


GOING TOGETHER 


“It sounds good when you read it,” she said kind¬ 
ly. “But why don’t you make up the third part?” 

“I—I don’t know. I’m making up—something 
else.” 

“What do* we have to have a third part for?” 
asked Lillian sulkily. 

“Things always have three, parts. You ought 
to know that, Nixie,” said the chair severely. 
“That’s parliamentary law. You don’t know much 
about clubs. If you weren’t in love with the subject 
of this club I wouldn’t let you be in this club at all.” 

“Well, she is, and that’s what the club’s about,” 
said Sally Belle loyally. “Last time she stayed all 
night with me she made a hole right through my 
picture of him kissing it good night. It was the 
school group, the one where his profile shows. I 
didn’t cut him out. I sleep with it all.” 

“That picture is worn out, anyway, and anybody 
could kiss a hole through it,” said the chair judici¬ 
ally. “The business of the meeting will proceed. 
Nixie has the floor.” 

“I don’t want the old floor,” Nixie replied 
promptly, “if you’re going to nag at me, Madgie 
Carr, even if you are older than I am, and got up 


PARLIAMENTARY LAW 


73 


this club. I am just as crazy about the subject of 
this club as you are. I made Tish drive past his 
house three times last night after supper. There 
was a light in his room, and I thought he was there. 
The third time somebody opened the window, and 
it was his mother. Eve got his picture—that snap¬ 
shot that’s light-struck—pasted in my locket. Tish 
got it open and looked at it, and I had to pretend 
it was a picture of Tish to keep him from getting 
mad. Tish has fighting blood. If he really gets 
mad there won’t be any club or any subject of the 
club, either. Tish-” 

“When you have been going with Tish as long 
as I have been going with Stub,” said the chair 
calmly, “you’ll boss him. You won’t let him boss 
you. Nixie will come to order and finish her re¬ 
port in proper form.” 

“That’s all. I was home from school sick with 
a cold four days last week, and did not see the sub¬ 
ject of this club.” 

“Pixie has the floor. Has she any report to 
make?” 

“No. I’ve just seen him, that’s all—not talked 
to him. I’ve got a list of the dates. And Wednes- 



74 


GOING TOGETHER 


day I think he—the subject— was going to ask me 
to skate, but I got scared and hid and then skated 
with Pig. Was it awful to hide?” 

“It was cute of Pixie to hide,” said the chair 
graciously. “But Pixie must learn to make her 
report in proper form.” 

“I’ll fix it now if you want me to.” 

“Never mind. Is that all?” 

Sally Belle gave one long look toward the hall, 
where her bag and the red note-book were. “I— 
yes, that’s all,” she said. 

“Trixie has the floor,” the presiding officer an¬ 
nounced. She cleared her throat elegantly. 

“Ladies of the Three of a Kind Club,” she be¬ 
gan correctly, “I was absent in Franklin Center last 
week visiting my aunt. I did not see the subject of 
this club, and I have no report to make; but I 
have something to read to you.” With a graceful 
gesture she unbuttoned her shirt-waist and from 
this romantic hiding-place produced a folded paper. 
“It—it is a poem,” she said. 

“Well go on and read it. Don’t stand there and 
hold it. I’ll move for you to read it if you want 
me to,” said Lillian. “What’s the matter, Madgie?” 


PARLIAMENTARY LAW 


75 


“Lil, it’s a poem,” said Sally Belle. “Leave her 
alone. She can’t read it till she gets ready to. You 
can’t, with a poem. Poems are different. They 
aren’t like anything else. They—they’re poems.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Well I”—said Sally Belle—“I -” 

But the chair was herself again. 

“This is a poem,” she began. “I never wrote one 
before. It is short but very good. You don’t have 
to move for me to read it. I’ve got the floor any¬ 
way. I will read it now,” and holding the paper 
daintily between two fingers and speaking in her 
most parliamentary voice she read: 

To You 

Walter, depart 

From the house of my heart. 

Walter, Walter, you will not go. 

What is it that fascinates me so? 

The chair read this poem through, then waited, 
composed and smiling. Nobody else spoke at once. 

“The meeting is open for general remarks,” she 
said encouragingly. 


7 6 


GOING TOGETHER 


“Is—is that all?” said Sally Belle. “All the 
poem ?” 

“Yes. Why?” 

“I thought poems were longer.” 

“Some poems are. This poem isn't. I wrote it 
in five minutes.” 

“You—you can’t,” said Sally Belle. “I mean— 
this poem is good of course, but you can’t write 
poems like that. They have to come. They don’t 
come all at once—just a little bit at a time, and you 
think you heard it somewhere, then you know you 
are making it up, and it’s a poem. I mean—I 
thought -” 

“Nobody cares what you thought,” said Lillian. 
“What do you know about writing poems?” 

“Nothing,” said Sally Belle meekly. 

“This poem is beautiful. It—it ought to be 
printed. Can I copy it ?” 

“If you care to.” 

“It—it’s beautiful. I love it.” 

“Oh, Lil, you don’t! Not that poem,” said Sally 
Belle. 

“Don’t you want her to like my poem?” said the 



PARLIAMENTARY LAW 


77 


chair. “Why, you’re all red in the face! Are you 
jealous, kid?” 

“Yes, she is, and sometimes I get sick of it too,” 
said Lillian. 

“Nixie and Pixie will stop fighting and come to 
order,” said the chair. “They are crazy about each 
other, really, and everybody knows they are. Well, 
I’m glad you like my poem, and you can both copy 
it. We can learn it and say it out loud. If there 
is no further business to come before the meeting 
we will unveil the subject’s portrait and then make 
fudge.” 

“I move the portrait of the subject of the Three 
of a Kind Club be unveiled,” said Lillian. 

“Second the motion,” said Sally Belle. 

“Oh, I’ve got a new one, girls!” the chair ex¬ 
plained informally. “It looks just like him. It’s 
a surprise. Ready, Lil? All right, go ahead, kid, 
it’s your turn to unveil.” 

Sally Belle rose, her knees a little shaky with 
excitement. This was the big moment of the aft¬ 
ernoon. It was here and it was hers. 

“First in war, first in peace and first in the hearts 


78 


GOING TOGETHER 


of the T. O. A. K.,” she said. She put out a trem¬ 
bling hand and pulled open the black leather frame. 
Then as one girl the T. O. A. K. knelt down on the 
carpeted floor, rested its elbows on the table, put 
its chin on its clasped hands and looked at the pic¬ 
ture revealed. 

It was a surprise indeed. The black leather 
frame, which had enshrined in turn a New York 
matinee idol, a popular preacher and a sad-eyed 
young man cut from an undertaker’s catalogue and 
wearing grave clothes, all three chosen for their 
resemblance to the subject, now held an authentic 
cabinet photograph of the subject himself. It was 
Walter—Walter Clark. It was a full-length photo¬ 
graph, and you could see all of him, even the shoes, 
which were pointed and very small, with the toes 
well turned out. A tall slender boy with clothes 
that looked tall and slender, too, and a small round 
head, a small mouth, and a short straight nose, and 
dark hair parted in the middle, very straight, and 
eyes that looked right at you. Wonderful eyes, 
round and full and black; eyes like the sea—the 
eyes, the face, that wrecked a thousand ships. They 
were Walter’s eyes. 


PARLIAMENTARY LAW 


79 


“Oh!” breathed Sally Belle. “Oh!” 

“Where did you get it ?” 

“His mother gave it to my mother.” 

“It’s handsome.” 

“He’s handsomer.” 

“I feel so foolish when I do this.” 

“But the kid’s happy. Look!” 

“Hush!” 

The two voices which Sally Belle had heard dimly 
through a dream now stopped, and silence infolded 
the T. O. A. K., the five minutes of silent worship 
with which their meetings closed. Madgie looked 
graceful kneeling, but Lillian’s hair looked like an 
angel’s hair. Sally Belle, kneeling between them, 
could almost hear her heart beat, she was so happy. 
They did not want her poems—they must never 
hear her poems. But that did not matter. Noth¬ 
ing mattered but the T. O. A. K. She was part 
of it. She was safe in it. It was beautiful. Mother 
wanted it to end. Pig wanted it to end. Poor 
mother! Poor Pig! They did not understand. 
Nothing could end it. It was forever. 

She was going to remember this minute—remem¬ 
ber it always. She raised her eyes and looked 


8o 


GOING TOGETHER 


straight into the subject’s eyes, and her lips moved, 
making no sound, but speaking real words—speak¬ 
ing them straight to him. 

“When the lamps are lit in the mirrored room,” 
she said. 


VII 


IN THE MIRRORED ROOM 

“Pig, I told you not to call for me.” 

“I’m not. It’s time to go and I’m going. I’ve 
got to get there—can’t fly. The street’s free. If 
you’re too good to walk with me you can walk on 
the other side.” 

“I don’t care.” 

Pig had walked up and down outside the house, 
waiting for her while she dressed. She had seen 
him, but it was no use to say so. It was never any 
use to argue with Pig. He only went on saying 
the same things over and over until he changed his 
mind himself. Sally Belle fell into step beside him, 
crunching the hard-packed snow. It looked blue- 
white in the starlight. There was no moon. It was 
the night of Walter Clark’s party and she was 
going. 

“Club meet to-day?” said Pig. 

81 


82 


GOING TOGETHER 


“Yes.” 

“Huh!” said Pig. Then he was silent, not even 
whistling. 

Sally Belle was not mad with Pig. They were 
speaking. But they were not on good terms. They 
had not been since a quarrel two weeks ago. Since 
that day nothing had been quite right with Sally 
Belle’s world. At home mother and father had 
long talks about her, and stopped when she came 
into the room. At school Lillian and Madgie were 
always whispering together and stopped when she 
joined them, and Pig and Stub and Tish sat on 
the steps at recess and had secrets together, and 
wrote notes to one another in class instead of to 
the girls. Even at the T. O. A. K. things were 
not quite the same, though she had skated twice with 
the subject and her red book was almost full of 
poems. She had it with her now, in the pocket of 
her party cape. The T. O. A. K. was still the most 
beautiful thing in the world, but she felt lonely all 
the time, and afraid of something, she did not know 
quite what—afraid sometimes that this party would 
never come. 

But it had come, and she and Pig were turning 


IN THE MIRRORED ROOM 


83 


into the front yard of the old Carr place, which the 
Clarks had rented furnished. You could see from 
the street that a party was there. All the front 
windows were lighted and the lights showed yel¬ 
low and gay through the overgrown hedge. There 
were footprints in the snow on the walk and arctics 
and rubbers on the front porch, and some one was 
playing ragtime on the tinkly old square piano in 
the back parlor—playing The Georgia Camp-Meet¬ 
ing. Sally Belle’s feet danced to it on the snow. 
She had been six whole months in society, and she 
was not used to parties yet. Pig stopped her out¬ 
side the hedge with a fur-gloved hand on her arm. 

“Listen here!” he said. “I’ve got something to 
say to you.” 

Sally Belle stopped under the willow tree by the 
gate, where the ground was almost bare, and Pig 
stood before her in the snow, shifting from one foot 
to the other. 

“If you’ve got to talk—why, talk!” she said. 

“It’s not my fault,” said Pig. 

“What’s not your fault ?” 

“Have you seen Madge and Lil since the club?” 

“No. Why?” 


8 4 


GOING TOGETHER 


Pig cleared his throat. 

“Well, when you do see Madge and Lil,” he 
said, “something is going to happen. You won’t 
like it, and it’s not my fault. I tried to stop it. I’ve 
been trying ever since you know when—that fight 
you and I had about you know who, that time two 
weeks ago in my sleigh when you got so mad. Sally 
Belle, if you want anything that much I want you 
to have it, even if it is foolish.” 

“If you want what thing?” 

“Him. You know who. Clark. Him and your 
darn fool club. But I can’t stop Stub and Tish. I 
went in with them, and I can’t stop them and I 
can’t back out. I have got to do what they want. 
I have got to do it now.” 

“Do what?” said Sally Belle coldly. 

“Why, have this talk with you and come to an 
understanding. Stub and Tish and I agreed to be¬ 
fore this party. Stub called Madge up on the tele¬ 
phone and they came to an understanding. He was 
round there to supper. And Tish went round to 
Lil’s, and they had an understanding too. And 
now I have got to come to an understanding with 
you. I have got to say just what they said to 


IN THE MIRRORED ROOM 


*5 


Madge and Lil. I promised to.” Pig braced him¬ 
self in the snow with his feet wide apart and poked 
his head forward. 

“You girls have got to can your crush on Clark 
and break up the Three of a Kind Club, or Stub 
and Tish and I won’t go with you.” 

“Break up what ?” Sally Belle said in a whisper. 
“What?” 

“The Three of a Kind Club.” Again Pig uttered 
that sacred name carelessly, like any other three 
■words. “A cute name I call it.” 

For a minute—or a lifetime, was it?—she said 
nothing more, but stared hard at a snowdrift that 
she did not see. It was in passing minutes, through 
careless phrases, lightly spoken, that hearts broke 
and lives were wrecked. She had always understood 
that, but she had never supposed it could happen to 
her. She had certainly never supposed that Pig 
could break her heart or any heart. She could hear 
him breathing deep with relief that a painful scene 
was over, then beginning to shuffle his feet uneasily. 

“It’s not my fault,” he said. 

“Oh, no!” said Sally Belle sweetly. She lifted 
her chin very high and smiled at him. “Is that all 


86 


GOING TOGETHER 


you’ve got to say? Then suppose we go in. My 
feet are rather cold.” 

“But—but what have you got to say ?” 

“Why, nothing much. Who told you the name 
of my club?” 

“I’d rather not tell.” 

“Lillian?” 

“No.” 

“Madgie Carr?” 

“I’d rather not tell. Well, yes. Stub got it out 
of her. She’s stuck on him all right. Showed him 
the whole shooting match, constitution and all. We 
think of getting up a club and asking you girls to 
join, now the Three of a Kind Club’s broken up.” 

“The Three of a Kind Club is not broken up,” 
said Sally Belle. 

“But Madgie’s going to resign, and Lil is.” 

“I know it.” 

“So even if you won’t come to an understanding 
with me, the club’s bu’sted. You can’t belong to a 
club alone.” 

“Coming to an understanding with a girl means 
getting your own way, does it?” 

“Sure!” said Pig. 


IN THE MIRRORED ROOM 


87 


“Then, Pig Plummer,” said Sally Belle, “you 
will not come to an understanding with me. I can 
belong to a club alone if I want to. There’s no 
law to prevent me. You can’t stop me, and Lil can’t 
and Madgie Carr can’t, and nobody else can.” 

She turned and walked into the yard and up the 
steps and kicked off her storm rubbers deliberately. 
Pig, dazed and silent, watched her and did not move. 

“Nothing can stop me!” she repeated. “Nothing.” 

Then she rang the bell, opened the door, and hold¬ 
ing her head high and stepping in time to The 
Georgia Camp-Meeting, which was still being played, 
she went into the house and straight on up the 
stairs. 

She was so late that she was not met at the door, 
but she knew her way. She was not a child, she was 
a society woman now, and she knew society. She 
would need all her social training, all her poise to¬ 
night. To laugh while the world laughed with you, 
to smile and smile while your heart broke, that was 
woman’s work, and she had a sacred duty to per¬ 
form. It was hers and hers alone. Nothing should 
take it from her. For she meant what she had 
said to Pig. She was the T. O. A. K. 


88 


GOING TOGETHER 


The front bedroom was the ladies’ cloakroom, the 
back bedroom the gentlemen’s cloakroom, and the 
hall bedroom an overflow cloakroom for late guests, 
all quite correct. She put her new red party cape 
on top of the pile on the hall-room bed. The coats, 
capes and sweaters were all wraps that Sally Belle 
knew, but they looked quite rich and strange in that 
many-colored heap. The little room had the picked- 
up queer look that all rooms had in houses where 
there were parties. She combed her hair with her 
side combs, found a can of talcum on the dresser 
and powdered her nose very white. Her party 
dress buttoned in the back, but it was a grown-up 
color—lavender. She felt ready to face her world. 
She went down the stairs to the door of the back 
parlor, where the party was, pushed back the red 
plush portieres and stepped inside. 

She stood still there and looked at the party. 
You could not see very much, but you could see that 
the subject’s party was like no party in Sally Belle’s 
social experience. The parlor was almost dark, and 
the light that there was looked softer than lamp¬ 
light and brighter than candlelight, but it was 
candlelight. The candles were set in Japanese lan- 


IN THE MIRRORED ROOM 


89 


terns that hung in clusters from the ceiling, on pic¬ 
ture wires crossed from the moldings. In the bay 
window, with lanterns hung low on both sides of 
it, their light dimmed by its yellow glow, there 
was a big jack-o’-lantern. She had seen them be¬ 
fore, but never so toothless and fierce. It leered 
at her. At first it was the only face she could see 
in the room, then she saw the girls huddled into a 
bunch on one side of the room and the boys on the 
other, as they always vjere before a party got go¬ 
ing. They were whispering and giggling, but not 
talking out loud. The floor was not cleared for 
dancing, and there were no card tables. The only 
table in the room held a bowl of red apples and a 
bowl of pop corn. What kind of party was this? 

“What do they think we are? Bunch of kids?” 
said a voice beside her. “They call this an old- 
fashioned party. Sit here, darling.” The voice 
and the arm that slipped round her and drew her 
down to occupy half an unsteady chair were 
Madgie Carr’s. Sally Belle let the arm stay around 
her, but sat up very straight. 

“Good evening, Trixie,” she said formally. 

“Don’t call me that any more,” Madgie whispered. 


9 o 


GOING TOGETHER 


“Didn’t you see Pig? You aren’t mad with Lil and 
me? That’s right. Walter Clark is sweet-looking, 
but he is a sissy. And you have to give in to the 
boy you are going with when he gets mad or you 
can’t boss him the rest of the time. And, darling, 
I promised not to tell, but I will. You and Lil are 
going to be taken into the Happy Thought Club.’ , 
This select group of six older girls ruled society. 
“You are old enough now. I worked hard to get 
you in.” 

“Indeed?” Sally Belle was polite, but cold. “I 
don’t know that I care to join. I can’t belong to 
two clubs at once. I belong to one club now—the 
T. O. A. K.” She pushed Madgie’s arm away and 
rose. “I don’t care to discuss it. I don’t care to 
discuss anything. This party is going to begin,” 
she said. 

A boy had stepped out of the dim ranks of other 
boys into the yellow patch of light that the jack-o’- 
lantern made. It smiled at him over his shoulder, 
and he smiled, too, as he stood there. The party, 
received in twilight gloom, was getting its first look 
at the host. The mist that always came before Sally 
Belle’s eyes when she saw the subject cleared away 


IN THE MIRRORED ROOM 


9i 


and she looked too. She saw a tall dark boy with a 
small smiling mouth and small shiny shoes. It was 
Walter Clark, but where were Walter’s clothes, his 
beautiful smooth-fitting Boston clothes? They were 
gone, and instead he wore things that were not like 
any clothes she had seen before. The coat was a 
queer shape, short and fat looking. The collar was 
worse. It was very wide and stuck out all round 
his face, so that his neck stood up very long and 
thin. It was finished with an unpleasant floppy 
bow, and it was made of paper. But the legs were 
worst of all—the subject’s lovely slender legs. They 
were strangely dressed. All society was in long 
pants now, even Pig, and to-night the subject was in 
knickerbockers—knickerbockers that did not fit. 
They bagged at the knees. They bagged all over. 
Round them were ribbons with large bright buckles, 
and below them were black silk stockings, very thin, 
and you could see white underneath them. 

“Sissy!” whispered the faithless Madgie, and a 
low whistle of surprise and delight was heard from 
the boys’ side of the room, then excited murmurs of 
comment from both sides. The subject made a 
graceful gesture to command attention, and spoke; 


92 


GOING TOGETHER 


and though his appearance was changed his voice 
was, as always, very refined, very clear: 

“I am pleased to see you all here, and I hope you 
will all enjoy the evening.” 

“Thanks, teacher,” said a respectful voice—Tis¬ 
sue Doyle’s—and the subject turned toward it 
graciously. 

“I am not supposed to represent a teacher. I 
represent a boy of our grandfather’s day. As you 
all know, this is an old-fashioned party. We are 
going to play old-fashioned games. The first on 
the program will be Going to Jerusalem, the next 
will be Clap In and Clap Out and the next will be 
Post-Office. After that refreshments will be served. 
We will then have an old-fashioned spelling match. 
If you don’t know any of these games I will explain 
them to you.” The subject waited, but nobody 
spoke. “You all know them? That’s fine. Then 
we can begin. I’ll show you how to fix the chairs.” 

There was a long dreadful pause, but at last, as if 
at a signal, the groups at the two sides of the room 
broke up and merged. Chairs were pulled into 
place down the center of the room. Madgie Carr 
struck up the Hi^h School Cadets’ March on the 


IN THE MIRRORED ROOM 


93 


piano, hitting false notes in the dark, but banging 
out the tune very loud, and the game began. Walter 
Clark had insulted society, but society had swallowed 
the insult. It never played games now. It was 
too old for games, but if the host insisted it would 
play to-night. Once, twice and again a procession 
wound round the row of chairs, stopped, scrambled 
for chairs and then marched as before. It was a 
long procession, and in the gloom it looked longer. 
Except when accidents happened, it marched in grim 
silence. 

“Sweet light to crack your shins in.” 

“Don’t mind a little thing like that. I just tore 
my dress.” 

“Girls, this is some party!” 

Stub, in a high falsetto, was trying to be funny. 
Sally Belle, at the tail of the procession, knew that 
society was angry. She knew, but she did not care. 
For heading the long line, stepping daintily in the 
dark, the subject walked before her. His face 
looked paler than other faces. You followed it like 
a light. She would have followed it anywhere. 

It was not his fault that they did not like his 
party. She liked it. 


94 


GOING TOGETHER 


“We ought to keep on till all the chairs are gone,” 
the subject said at last, “but some of us seem tired. 
We will start Clap In and Clap Out.” 

In the old times, when society played games, 
Sally Belle had liked this game. It was so quiet and 
restful, and the beginning was mysterious like 
Christmas, though you knew just what would hap¬ 
pen. You waited in the hall with the other girls 
until the boy you were going with called you in to 
sit on the floor in front of him. You sat down in 
front of the wrong boy once and got clapped out, 
then guessed right the next time he called you and 
sat still and watched the game. She was the first 
girl called to-night. She did not want to stay with 
Madgie and Lil, so she sat down at once on a large 
soft cushion in front of Pig. The boys laughed at 
her, of course, for guessing right so quickly. 

“Hello, my lady, whose black baby are you ?” they 
called to her out of some coon song, and “Oh, you 
Sally Belle!” 

“You can lean back against me if you want to,” 
Pig said under cover of the noise. 

“I don’t care to,” said Sally Belle coldly. 


IN THE MIRRORED ROOM 


95 


Then Stub called Madgie and the game went on. 
Madgie guessed wrong three times, and most of the 
girls did. It was a long game, and Sally Belle was 
glad. Sitting there, she could watch the subject all 
she liked and he would not know it. His costume 
was very funny, but he was not. He did not know 
that they did not like his party. He was a man of 
the world, a perfect host. He was wonderful. She 
could have watched him forever. But the last girl 
sat down and the game stopped. Sally Belle’s foot 
was asleep. She rubbed it and rose. Pig tried to 
speak to her, but she turned her back on him. Tish 
moved toward her through the crowd as the game 
broke up and drew her into a corner. 

“Lil wants to see you,” he said. “She’s out in the 
hall.” 

“I don’t care to come,” said Sally Belle with dig¬ 
nity. “Lil can come here if she wishes to speak 
with me.” Tish laughed. He always laughed at 
Sally Belle, but she liked him. 

“Lil is as sore as the deuce,” he said, “because you 
won’t get out of the T. O. A. K. Have some sense! 
Take my say about Clark! Don’t fight with your 


9 6 


GOING TOGETHER 


best friend about him. He’s not good enough. Look 
at his get-up to-night! Would a he-man wear it? 
Look at this whole darn-fool party!” 

“Tissue Doyle,’’ Sally Belle said, “I don’t care to 
discuss my host with you when I am a guest in his 
house. And I don’t care to discuss the subject of 
my club with you when you don’t belong to it. I 
belong to the T. O. A. K.” Tish gave her a long 
queer look, as if he liked her and did not like her, 
both at once. 

“Girls are the deuce,” he said. “Well, if to-night 
won’t cure you I give you up.” Then he went back 
to Lil. 

Sally Belle did not talk to anybody else. She 
could not. They were clearing the room for the 
next game and rough-housing a little while they did 
it, throwing apples and getting into fights and sing¬ 
ing. The party had got going. It was the enchanted 
hour that she liked best at parties, but she could not 
enjoy it or watch it. She and Lillian had never 
gone to bed mad with each other, and they would 
to-night. She had quarreled with her best friend. 
It was a great price to pay, but the subject was 
worth it. Now, indeed, he was hers, and nothing 


IN THE MIRRORED ROOM 


97 


could take him from her. The room was ready soon 
and there was a rush for seats. The subject stepped 
into the middle of the room and clapped his hands 
for silence. 

“Post-Office,” he announced. “The office will be 
in the front parlor. I will send the first letter. Mr. 
Plummer will tend door. Do you know how to, 
Plummer ?” 

“I can make out to,” said Pig in a gruff voice. 

He got up and went with the subject to the folding 
doors between the two parlors and stood there a 
minute talking to him, then the subject went into the 
front parlor. Pig shut the doors behind him and 
stood alone. His arms hung straight down at his 
sides in a kiddish way, and his eyes looked large 
and moist. He had never looked more unhappy. 
His chin wiggled. He tried to speak, gulped twice 
and spoke. 

“Sally Belle Smith,” he said, “the office is open. 
There is a letter for you.” 

“In—in there?” said Sally Belle. 

“Sure! Go on in—no, in Post-Office Square.” 
Different voices said: “Lost the use of your legs?” 
“Lost your tongue?” 


98 


GOING TOGETHER 


For the moment Sally Belle had. She did not 
know this game. She had never played it before or 
seen it played. But she knew that the subject had 
singled her out from them all for some honor. He 
had chosen her, Sally Belle Smith. He had chosen 
her now, in this hour when she had been tried and 
stayed true to him. She rose, crossed the room and 
brushed past Pig into the lighted room where the 
subject was. 

Pig banged the doors shut behind her. She leaned 
back against them and felt for the door-knob, and 
found it and clung to it. Her knees felt weak. She 
could not see the subject or anything else in the 
room. Then she saw him. He was standing by a 
center table with a red-shaded lamp on it and look¬ 
ing at her. She could not see his face very clearly. 
It was only a white blur with dark eyes, but he was 
smiling at her—she could tell from his voice when 
he spoke. 

“Scared ?” he said. 

Sally Belle shook her head. 

“Ever play this game before ?” 

“No” 

“Glad I called you?” 


IN THE MIRRORED ROOM 


99 


“I—I-” Sally Belle choked. 

“You are scared! And you are a kid, but you are 
a very nice little kid and I like you. Want your 
letter?” Sally Belle nodded. She could not speak. 
“Come on over here.” 

Sally Belle let go of the door-knob and .stood up 
straight and came forward to where the subject was 
and stood in front of him, waiting and holding out 
her hand, but he did not give her the letter. Instead 
he did a queer thing. He put his arm round her 
waist. 

“Where's the letter ?” she said. 

“Take it now, or wait till you get it?” 

His arm felt like your partner’s arm in the first 
position for waltzing, but she did not want to dance, 
and it was bad manners to hold your partner tight. 
He was holding her very tight. She could smell the 
musty smell of his old-fashioned coat. She hated it. 

“You let me go!” she said. 

“Here’s your letter.” 

She tried to push him away, but she could not. 
He held her tighter and put his face down close to 
hers. His face felt smooth and soft like Lillian’s. 
Then before she could stop him or guess what he 



IOO 


GOING TOGETHER 


meant to do his mouth touched her cheek. He 
kissed her. 

He let her go and stood looking down at her, and 
she looked up at him. The kiss had been in the 
middle of her left cheek. She put up her hand and 
rubbed it. 

“Like your letter?” he said. “You can have an¬ 
other one if you will call me out by and by.” 

This game was a kissing game and the kiss was 
the letter. She had been kissed by a boy. Nobody 
had ever kissed her before but her own family and 
Lillian. And the boy had a baggy suit and a long 
scraggly neck and a silly smile and a high squeaky 
voice like a girl’s voice. 

“What’s the matter? Don’t you like to play this 
game? You can have another letter now if you want 
one,” he said. He came toward her. Words came 
into Sally Belle’s head and she said them. 

“Sissy! Fool! Smart Aleck! Dude! Don’t 
you ever speak to me again!” she said. 

Then without a backward glance at the subject of 
the T. O. A. K. she walked out of the room. She 
went through the hall and up-stairs. She went 
straight to the little room where she had left her 


IN THE MIRRORED ROOM 


IOI 


cape. It had a door that locked. She shut it be¬ 
hind her and locked it. She had the room to herself, 
and nobody had seen her go to it. She could cry 
if she liked, and there were some tears in her eyes, 
but she did not want to cry. She just wanted to be 
alone, and she was. She looked round her. The 
bed was full of wraps and the matting on the floor 
looked hard and cold. 

She found her own red cape and spread it on the 
floor and lay down on it. 

A terrible thing had happened. She did not know 
why it happened, but it did. It happened just now 
down-stairs when the subject kissed her. She had 
not understood that life was like this, that a lovely 
thing you had made yourself could die in a minute 
for no reason. What could comfort you? What 
was there left in the world that was beautiful at all? 
The subject was not the subject any more. That 
was the thing that had happened. He was a strange 
boy who had kissed her, a boy she hated. There 
was no T. O. A. K. 

Something hard in the pocket of her cape hurt her, 
and she pulled it out and looked at it. It was her 
little book with her poems in it. It was a dear little 


102 


GOING TOGETHER 


book. She had loved it. She loved it now. She 
put it under her cheek and lay down again, petting 
it. She did not feel very sad. Great griefs stunned 
you; you could not feel. She was resting and com¬ 
fortable as if she were going to sleep. When you 
wrote poems the best ones came just before you went 
to sleep. Lines, phrases, lovely words would slip 
into your head and stay there—whole verses some¬ 
times. 

Sally Belle turned on the floor, which was getting 
hard. There was a mirror in front of her and a 
lamp on the bureau under it: a glass hand lamp, 
turned low, so it gave a pretty light. She might get 
up and see how tears looked on her face, only her 
tears were all dry. She lay still and watched the 
light in the mirror. The party down-stairs was mak¬ 
ing more noise now. Somebody laughed very loud. 
There was a feeling that came when you wrote 
poems, a prickly feeling all in the roots of your hair. 
It was like nothing else. She had not felt it for 
weeks. 

Somebody was coming up the stairs and stumbling 
in the dark, somebody looking for her. She lay 


IN THE MIRRORED ROOM 


103 


still and held her breath, but he would find her. He 
always did. He stopped outside her door, tried it 
and found it was locked, and stood there, shifting 
his feet and making the floor creak. He did not 
dare to knock. 

“Hello!” she called. “Hello, Pig! How did you 
know I was here?” 

“I didn’t. I looked every place else first. You 
crying ?” 

“No” 

“They’re having refreshments down-stairs. 
Brought them in just after Clark called you out. 
They didn’t play any more. They don’t know you’re 
up here. They’re all eating. Want some ice¬ 
cream ?” 

“No.” 

“It’s peach and chocolate mixed. I could get 
mine, too, and bring it up here and eat it with you.” 

Sally Belle sighed, but it was no use to argue. 

“All right,” she said. “Oh, Pig, have you got a 
lead pencil ? Mine’s broken.” 

“Sure.” 

She got up, went to the door and unlocked it and 


104 


GOING TOGETHER 


opened it a crack. A hand slipped through, holding 
out a small stubby lead pencil. She took it and 
shut the door. 

“Oh, Pig-” She stopped. Even now this 

was a little hard to say. ‘Tig, I don’t belong to the 
T. O. A. K. any more. It was a silly club. I don’t 
want you ever to mention it to me again.” 

“You don’t?” Pig stopped talking, but did not 
go. The floor creaked and he breathed very hard 
indeed. He wanted to tell her something. 

“All right,” he went on at last in a hoarse whisper. 
“But you can belong to it if you want to. I won’t 
stop going with you. I—I can’t. It would take 
more than the T. O. A. K. to break up you and me.” 

“That’s good. Now go along, Pig.” 

Pig went. She heard him go down the stairs. 
She had just time enough. The pencil was dull, but 
it would work if you wet it. She opened the little 
red book at the one blank page and balanced it on 
the bureau and turned up the lamp. She spoke 
rapidly and softly, out loud: 

“When the lamps are lit in the mirrored room, 

The air is full of a sweet perfume. 



IN THE MIRRORED ROOM 


105 


Low laughter rings on the perfumed air 

And I think of you. Will you never care? 

Waking or sleeping, your face I see-” 

There was more of it. She had it all now. This 
was the poem she had always liked best, but she 
could never finish it before. She could finish it now. 
It had just come. It was a beautiful poem, and this 
was a beautiful minute. She was going to remem¬ 
ber it always. She wet the pencil between her lips 
and began to write. 



VIII 


IN SOPHOMORE ROW 

A small pink note lay on Sally Belle’s desk. She 
opened her eyes and saw it, and folded her hands 
over it and sat up very straight and looked round 
her. She was a sophomore now—she had been for 
almost three weeks—and she sat in Sophomore 
Row, in the middle of the high school assembly 
room, with Junior Row and Senior Comer behind 
her, and all the freshmen in front. She loved this 
room. The recitation rooms up-stairs were little and 
dark, but this room was sunny and big and very old. 
It was the court room, and this building was the 
court-house before the new brick one was built. The 
white pillars on the porch in front were beautiful. 

And she loved this time of day. It was three, and 
school would close in half an hour; but nobody 
seemed to know it. They all sat still, as if they 
meant to sit there always, like the Sleeping Beauty’s 
106 


IN SOPHOMORE ROW 107 

courtiers in the wood. The hands of the funny old 
clock, with the red boat always sailing, did not seem 
to move at all. 

Sally Belle sat just under the clock. Pig 
Plummer sat behind her. He was studying his¬ 
tory and whispering dates to himself, the same dates 
over and over. She could hear them all, the room 
Was so still. The principal was holding a Latin- 
prose class up-stairs, and Freeman Foster was at his 
desk, keeping order. Free was the youngest assist¬ 
ant. He was saving money to go to law school, and 
reading law in her father’s office, so she ought to 
marry him when she grew up. But he had a girl in 
Franklin Center. Perhaps he was writing to her 
now—he was writing fast with a fountain pen. His 
face was pale and his black hair was shiny and 
smooth. He looked beautiful, writing. The room 
looked beautiful, all in a golden haze of chalk dust 
and September sun. 

Madgie Carr sat in the sunniest window. Her 
curls were made with curl papers at night, but they 
looked real. They looked like the golden curls of a 
princess in a picture. Her little white face was not 
like a princess though. It was like a witch or a fairy 


io8 


GOING TOGETHER 


—a wicked fairy. She was looking at an atlas, open 
in the wrong place, and pretending to study, but she 
had written the pink note. It smelled of her Flower- 
of-the-World perfume. It was folded in the shape 
of a boat. Sally Belle opened it and read it. It 
was short: 

Ruby: Walk home with me. Get rid of Pig and 
Diamond. Must see you. Pearl. 

Madgie Carr’s name was Marguerite, and “mar¬ 
guerite” meant “pearl,” so Madgie was Pearl; and 
Lillian Sewall, Sally Belle’s best friend, was Dia¬ 
mond, and Sally Belle was Ruby. They were secret 
names—to sign notes with. Sally Belle tore up the 
note, hid the pieces in her pencil box and sighed. 
What was she going to do? 

She had promised Madgie to make up her mind 
to-day, and it was not made up. Back in Senior 
Corner a row of chairs ran along the wall for special 
students studying out—in school for recitations 
only, and not needing desk room. All the chairs 
were empty but one, and in that chair a boy was 
sitting. She turned and looked at him. He was 
hunched over a book and reading. He had big 


IN SOPHOMORE ROW 


109 


square shoulders and a blue-serge suit and a bright- 
red tie and yellow hair brushed straight up and back 
like a girl’s, but rough like a boy’s hair. He looked 
up and smiled at her. He had nice white teeth and 
blue eyes. She liked blue eyes. He was Augustus 
Carr, Madgie’s cousin. He lived at the Falls, but 
was boarding at Madgie’s for the winter and coming 
into the sophomore class when he had tutored with 
Free. He was a handsome boy. She looked over 
her shoulder at Pig. 

Pig was not handsome. He had lost two pounds 
in the summer, but he was fat. His face always 
looked round and red when he studied hard. It was 
very red now, and had a pencil smudge on one 
cheek; and his forehead was damp, so his dark hair 
curled in rings. He was wearing out his summer 
shirts. His mother made them. They had attached 
collars like a little boy’s. He had on a pink one to¬ 
day. He was copying out his dates in an uneven 
column on ruled tablet paper, and wetting his pencil 
to make it write black and big. Pig’s eyes were 
1 brown. He was not handsome at all. But she did 
not know what to do. 

Well, if you could not think what to do you just 


no 


GOING TOGETHER 


did something and did not try to think. Sally Belle 
opened her atlas, held it high, settled down in her 
seat and shut her eyes. Life was hard, complicated, 
but it was pleasant too. Only last year she had 
crushes, slept with boys’ pictures under her pillow. 
Now all that was past. She did not have crushes. 
She was not in love. 

“ To-day I look into an empty heart/ ” she 
whispered. It was a line from some poem she had 
read. There were women who never loved. She 
would be one; give her life to some great cause— 
women’s rights, perhaps—or write novels; she had 
a plot for one. And already she had a woman’s 
problem to face, to settle now, to-day. It was 
pleasant in Sophomore Row. 

Free rang the first bell for closing. Closing time 
happened suddenly and fast, though the last half- 
hour was so slow. The golden quiet of the room 
was gone all in a minute. There was a shuffling of 
feet and a banging of desk lids. Free put his letter 
in his pocket and smiled to himself. It was a letter 
to his girl. He rang the second bell, and long lines 
filed out and scattered at the door. Sally Belle 
slipped into her place and marched sedately; then 


IN SOPHOMORE ROW 


hi 


pushed into the crowd round the cloakroom door 
and out with her red tam in her hand. Lillian was 
inside adjusting a new white tam deliberately. Pig, 
in the cloakroom across the hall, was struggling 
patiently with a broken shoe lace. Madgie was 
waiting behind a pillar on the porch. She put an 
arm round Sally Belle’s waist and hugged her in the 
patronizing way that Sally Belle did not quite like. 

“Good kid!” she said. “The crowd’s going round 
to Lil’s. We can walk there slow and talk.” 

They linked arms and started down Schoolhouse 
Hill. A long procession walked with them—all the 
school, for the few who lived on the Hill Road above 
the schoolhouse did not count in society. At the 
foot of the hill ways divided and you walked up 
Main Street under spreading maples and elms, or 
east and west into smaller and shadier streets; but 
down the short slant of hill and over the creaking 
board bridge that crossed the little river you all 
walked together. You walked in a solid phalanx, 
leaving the empty white schoolhouse up on the hill 
behind you. Sally Belle liked this walk, and she 
was proud to take it with Madgie. Madgie was 
president of the Happy Thought Club and the Whist 


112 


GOING TOGETHER 


Club. She led society. She was queen of all Sally 
Belle’s set. She was hard to get on with if she did 
not get her own way, but she almost always did. 
Sally Belle was proud of her, but sometimes she was 
afraid of her too. She was afraid to-day. The 
procession had reached the foot of the hill. They 
dropped back to the rear of it and walked slowly, 
keeping step. 

“Well?” Madgie said. 

“Well what?” said Sally Belle nervously. 

“You know what.” 

“Yes, I do know,” said Sally Belle. “I do. You 
want me to stop going with Pig and go with Augus¬ 
tus Carr. Is that it ?” 

“Yes. Will you do it? Of course,” Madgie 
added elegantly, “it makes no odds to me what you 
do.” 

“No, of course not,” said Sally Belle humbly. 

“I think a good deal of you, and I like to see you 
do the right thing, that’s all.” 

“Madgie,” Sally Belle took a long breath, cleared 
her throat and went on quite firmly, “now, Madgie, 
—Pearl,—I don’t know that I care to do this. You 
see, it’s this way: You were good to fix it up for 


IN SOPHOMORE ROW 


ii 3 

me. I appreciate it. And Ed just as lief do it as 
not. I’d like to. But it would be hard to do, and— 
and I don’t see much point to it, Pearl.” 

“Why, Sarah Isabel Smith!” said Madgie sadly. 

“Well-” 

Sally Belle stopped. It was no use to argue. 
Madgie would only talk more, and everything she 
said sounded true when she talked, and she talked so 
fast you could not think of good answers. 

“Have I or have I not been over all this with you ? 
Didn’t we talk till twelve last time I stayed all night 
with you? Can’t you see Gus has got to have a 
girl ? And he could get other girls. He can’t wait 
for you forever. He needs a girl to take to the 
chowder at camp next week.” 

“Well, why has he got to have me?” 

“He likes you. I don’t know why. You are a 
kid, but he likes you. Don’t you like Gus?” 

“I guess so. I haven’t talked to him, only once 
or twice at recess.” 

“Gus is my own second cousin, once removed,” 
Madgie began eloquently. “He lives at the Falls, 
but his mother keeps two girls and his father owns 
the woolen mill and part interest in the shoe factory. 



GOING TOGETHER 


114 

Gus is a cute fellow and he says cute things, and he’s 
a smooth little dancer. Pig can’t reverse, and he 
steps on your toes in the schottish.” 

“I know,” said Sally Belle. 

“Of course,” said Madgie sarcastically, “if my 

Cousin Gus isn’t good enough for you-” 

“Oh, he is,” said Sally Belle. “But—but-” 

She walked on more slowly, looking hard at her 
boots. 

“I’m going with Pig,” she said after a minute. 
“I went with Pig last year and the year before. I— 
I never went with anybody but Pig.” 

“Then it’s time you did.” 

“Why?” asked Sally Belle weakly. 

She knew why well enough. She was tired of 
hearing all this, very tired; yet it was all true. 
Madgie was right. They were half-way up Main 
Street now, with the shops behind them and front 
lawns and houses ahead. They were walking west, 
straight into the afternoon light. It was golden 
light to-day and the maple leaves were red gold. 
Sally Belle stared up at them and sighed. 

“A girl,” Madgie said, “can’t go with the same 
boy too long. When a girl and a boy have been 



IN SOPHOMORE ROW 


US 

going together a year they ought to break up. If 
you let one boy hang round too long it looks as if 
you couldn’t get anybody else, and after a while you 
can’t. No other boy will go with you. You don’t 
want to be known as a girl that can’t get but one 
boy.” 

“No,” said Sally Belle doubtfully. 

“And if you keep on going with the same boy till 
you grow up, what happens? You either get en¬ 
gaged to him and marry him or you don’t, and you 
have to be an old maid. You don’t want to be an 
old maid, do you ?” 

“No,” said Sally Belle. She shivered. She was 
fourteen already—almost fifteen. “But Lil and 
Tissue Doyle have been going together two yeans/' 
she argued, “and you and Stub have.” 

“I went with two boys before I went with Stub, 
and I may make a change before long, though I’m 
not telling that yet. If you don’t want Gus you can 
get somebody else. I’ll help you. But you and Pig 
ought to break up.” 

“I know it,” said Sally Belle faintly. “But—» 
but-” 

“Take your time. It’s your funeral,” said Madgie, 



ii 6 


GOING TOGETHER 


“If I did break up with Pig, how would I do it ?” 

“That’s easy. Be cold to him for a while, then 
give him a hint that you’re tired of him, then turn 
him down when he asks you to go some place, and 
then go some place with Gus. That’s all.” 

“Pig can’t take hints, and I can’t do all that. I 
don’t want to. If I do break up—if I did—I’d 
want to do it quick and get it over.” 

“You can do it next week at camp,” said Madgie 
promptly. “Drive out with Pig, and begin to be 
cold to him. Act cold to him all day, and drive 
home with Gus at night. You can do it all in one 
day. Is that quick enough?” 

“Yes,” said Sally Belle, “but I don’t want to hurt 
Pig’s feelings. Pig’s sensitive. Pig-” 

“Ruby,” said Madgie severely, “have you got a 
crush on Pig?” 

“A crush?” said Sally Belle. “On Pig?” she 
laughed. “Why, no! But I don’t want to hurt his 
feelings. He treats me right. And I like him, all 
right. I like Pig.” 

“Pig will think more of you if you can get some 
other boy.” 

“He will?” 



IN SOPHOMORE ROW 


ii 7 


“All boys do. Boys are like that. And he can 
go with some other girl.” 

“What girl?” said Sally Belle quickly. 

“Oh, any girl! You don’t care what girl, do 
you?” 

“No.” 

“That’s all right then.” Madgie seemed pleased. 
“Then it’s settled.” 

«j_>> 

“It’s all settled,” Madgie repeated brightly. 
“You’ll do it.” 

“I don’t have to just because you tell me to, 
Madgie Carr. It’s a free country.” 

“But you want to do the right thing.” 

“I suppose so.” 

“Then that’s all there is to it.” 

“Is it?” said Sally Belle. 

She pulled her arm out of Madgie’s and stood 
still. They were far up Main Street now, just 
across the street from her own house. 

Nobody was in sight there. Mother was safe in 
the kitchen, making a pan of fudge for Sally Belle. 
She could not see Sally Belle walking with Madgie. 
Mother did not understand Madgie. She never had, 



ii8 


GOING TOGETHER 


and she did not now, though Madgie was Sally 
Belle’s great friend. 

/‘She is a polite little girl,” mother said, “but I 
do not trust her. She may put ideas into your 
head.” 

Father understood Madgie better; he understood 
everything better, though mother was very sweet. 
He spoke very respectfully of Madgie, and always 
called her “Miss Carr.” 

“Miss Carr is a fine figure of a young woman,” 
he said. “She will go far. She will be president 
some day, whether you ladies get the vote or not.” 

Father understood almost everything, but she 
could not ask him about this problem of hers; no 
man would understand it. It was a woman’s prob¬ 
lem, of the kind that every woman must face and 
settle alone. 

Sally Belle sighed and stared wistfully across the 
street. The afternoon light came and went on the 
lawn in the pretty way that it always did. It 
touched the open lawn, making the faded grass look 
bright, and then slanted quickly away and hid under 
the one big tree at the corner. It was a beautiful 
tree. Half the leaves had fallen now, and you could 


IN SOPHOMORE ROW 


119 

see the wide free sweep of the branches, and the 
leaves that clung were a cool, clear, greeny gold. 
Sally Belle liked this tree. She always liked to look 
at it. She looked at it now for a minute, and while 
she looked she had a queer solemn feeling. She 
knew what to do. She had decided all in a minute 
as they walked up the street. Had she decided 
right? Anyway, she had decided. It was done. 
She took Madgie’s arm and squeezed it hard and 
they started on up the street again. The last of the 
crowd was hurrying into Lillian’s front yard, and 
she could hear the piano, though she could not make 
out the tune. They were in the back parlor singing. 
It was good to be going there too. It was good to 
belong to a crowd and do what the crowd did. It 
was good to be grown up. 

“Pearl,” she said, “I’ll do it.” 

“Next week at camp?” 

“Yes.” 

“Promise?” 

“I’ll shake.” 

Their hands met and clasped in their new secret 
grip, with which important vows were sealed, thumb 
pressed to thumb, ring fingers intertwined. 


120 


GOING TOGETHER 


“Cross my heart till death do us part,” said Sally 
Belle, reciting an ancient formula invented freshman 
year but respected still. ‘Til go with Gus. Pig and 
I will break up.” 


IX 


BEING COLD 

“Come on, Baby. Come on, Bess.” 

Pig and Sally Belle were taking their last ride to¬ 
gether. Pig did not know it. He talked in a low 
singsong voice to his old white horse, Queen Bess, as 
he always talked when he was very angry or very 
comfortable. He was comfortable now. He sat 
slouched over the reins, with his hat off and his 
black head bare. The noon sun beat down on the 
open parts of the road, but he only squinted and 
grinned. Pig liked the sun. The white birches 
along the wood road were almost bare, and dry 
autumn leaves fell on the buggy top in little scatter¬ 
ing showers; but the evergreens were black green 
and made deep patches of black-velvet shadow, and 
the woods far in were a rusty sunlit gold as they 
passed. It was almost high noon. They were half¬ 
way to camp already, and Sally Belle had not begun 
to be cold to Pig yet. 

121 


122 


GOING TOGETHER 


She did not know how to begin. This was the 
day when she was to break up with Pig, but she had 
made no plans for it—just waited for it to come. 
She had felt it coming, like examination day, and 
waked up in the night and remembered it. All that 
week she had not quarreled with Pig. He had 
given her two green tablets out of his father’s store, 
and she was writing her novel on them. It was a 
novel of the Latin Quarter in Paris. She was the 
heroine, eighteen, and studying music there, and 
Free Foster was the hero. The first chapter was 
almost done. She had to break up, but she had a 
whole day to do it—a day at camp. 

Days at camp were wonderful. They were so 
long that anything might happen, and many things 
did. Hearts broke and were mended again. There 
were little private camps all along the lake for hunt¬ 
ing and fishing—Camp Sewall and Camp Smith— 
but this camp had no name at all. It was just The 
Camp—the big public camp, where the Village Im¬ 
provement Society kept a cook and boats, and ice 
boats in winter; where the crowd’s finest parties 
were given. To-day they had two freezers of ice- 


BEING COLD 


123 


cream and Free Foster for chaperon and Free’s 
violin for dancing, and the whole crowd was here; 
six couples in buggies and eight in the hayrack just 
ahead, though the winding road hid it. If it were 
not for the duty that Sally Belle had to perform, 
this would be a perfect day. She looked at Pig, and 
he caught her eye and grinned. 

“Great day for the race,” he said. “What race? 
The human race.” 

This was an old joke, and it was not very funny, 
but Pig liked it. 

“Cat got your tongue?” he asked. 

“No, not a cat,” said Sally Belle carefully. 
"Pig-” 

“Sir!” 

“Pig, I want to talk to you.” 

“ ‘My Lord, your word is my will and my sword 
is at your service/ ” said Pig politely. It was one 
of his two lines in the sophomore play, now in re¬ 
hearsal. “ ‘One hour to sunrise/ ” he added. It 
was his other line. 

“Pig, maybe you think-” 

“Never!” . 



124 


GOING TOGETHER 


Sally Belle sighed. Pig was going to be funny. 
He did that sometimes, but if you took no notice of 
it and talked straight on he stopped after a while. 

“Maybe you think Eve acted quiet, driving out 
here to-day—Fve acted qu^er all the week. Well, 
Pig, there’s a reason why—why-” 

“‘Why do they call me a Gibson girl?’ ” inter¬ 
rupted Pig with deep feeling. 

“There’s a reason why I act the way I act,” ex¬ 
plained Sally Belle patiently. “You and I have 
been going together-” 

“Don’t boast of it.” 

“Don’t be silly,” said Sally Belle impatiently. 

“Maybe I’m not the one that’s silly,” said Pig in 
a low voice. 

He took the stubby whip, flicked a fly that Sally 
Belle could not see from Queen Bess’ collar and put 
the whip carefully back in the socket; then turned 
in his seat and looked at Sally Belle. 

“ ‘Strike here!’ ” he said. It was not his line in the 
play; it was the hero’s, and Pig smote his red 
sweater with the hero’s noble gesture. “ ‘This heart 
beats for you!’ ” 

Pig looked straight into Sally Belle’s eyes and 





BEING COLD 


125 


waited. His eyes looked just the brown that the 
pine needles were, deep in the woods. She had 
never noticed that before. He was not grinning 
now. He was not smiling at all. His chin wiggled 
the way it used to sometimes when he was a very 
little boy. Sally Belle could not go on for a minute 
with what she had meant to say. She could not 
go on at all. She did not know why. Her cheeks 
felt hot. 

“That’s not your heart. It’s your diaphragm,” 
she said crossly. “Pig-” 

“Waiting.” 

“I’ve got something to tell you. Not now, but 
later—later, sometime to-day.” 

“All right for you. Come on, Baby.” 

“You needn’t act so pleased with yourself,” said 
Sally Belle sulkily. “There’s nothing to be pleased 
about.” 

Pig was waving the stubby whip in curves and 
flourishes, like rapier play as the sophomore dra¬ 
matic club understood it, stabbing at passing trees 
and at Queen Bess, who, though used to this and 
other extravagances, flapped her left ear and glanced 
over her shoulder. 



126 


GOING TOGETHER 


“ ‘Die, traitor!’ ” said Pig. It was the last line of 
the play. “ ‘Thank heaven, that I have lived to win 
the subject of my masterpiece!’ ” He made the 
grand salute with the whip, looped the reins over 
the hook in the buggy pole, put his feet on the dasher 
and leaned back, squinting contentedly at the sky. 

“ ‘I can’t keep still no longer. I got to sing,’ ” he 
announced from the latest coon song. 

“If 3^ou’ve got to sing, then sing,” said Sally Belle. 

“Thanking you for the cordial invitation,” said 
Pig, and in a high plaintive voice, which was only 
slightly off key, he sang: 

“My Ann Eliza 
She’s a surpriser, 

She is my ragtime girl.” 

Queen Bess, who had learned to hear music 
calmly, whinnied once, and then plodded stolidly on 
up the Brook Road, which she knew much better 
than Pig. Sally Belle cuddled down beside him 
into the soft place in the cushion where the springs 
were weak, and leaned back her head and looked up 
at the moving strip of blue sky between the buggy 
top and the high dark trees. She liked this song. 


BEING COLD 


127 


Pig’s voice sounded sweet outdoors. There was 
something about it that went with outdoors. It 
made you want to cry, and it made you feel all warm 
inside, and happy. While he sang you thought of 
other things, beautiful things—the next chapter of 
her Paris novel was beginning now in her head—or 
you did not think at all. That was best. The hay¬ 
rack was far ahead, and you could not see it or hear 
it. The end of the Brook Road was near. The 
trees were thin. You could see blue water through 
them, but you did not need to look. You could shut 
your eyes and be all alone in the woods, with Pig 
singing. This was their last ride, but it felt like all 
their other rides. 

“Lost your voice?” Pig asked. He had sung 
Ann Eliza twice, straight through, and was starting 
the chorus again, conducting an imaginary orchestra 
with his whip. 

“I—I don’t feel like singing.” 

“No?” 

Pig did not ask why. He stopped singing and 
took down the reins and turned out of the Brook 
Road into the narrow cart track that led to camp. 
He drove through it and pulled up Queen Bess. 


128 


GOING TOGETHER 


The cart track and the woods ended here together. 
At the left, half hidden by trees, was the stable; 
and ahead, with a steep path winding down to it, the 
camp, wide and low, with a fringe of trees in front, 
and then the lake. It looked very blue to-day, more 
blue than the sky—the bluest blue in the world. 
Sally Belle jumped down, holding Pig’s hand. 

“Thank you for a very pleasant ride,” she said 
formally. 

“See you later,” said Pig, and drove off to the 
stable. 

The ride was over. She had been cold to Pig. 
Pig did not know it, but that was not her fault. 
She had done it. It was hard to do, but perhaps the 
rest of breaking up would not be so hard. She 
started down the path to camp. It was slippery 
with pine needles. They made your feet dance 
when you walked, and a wind from the lake made 
all the trees dance too. The white birches were 
very white against the blue of the lake. The boats 
at the slip bobbed up and down in the water, the 
wood paths along the lake were gold fairy paths in 
the sun, and blue-white smoke came from both the 
camp chimneys. She slid down the path to the end 


BEING COLD 


129 


and ran up the steps to the broad piazza of the camp 
and stood there dancing the pine needles off her feet 
and taking deep breaths of the air from the lake. 
It was fun to be there. It always was. It was fun, 
even if you had to break up. She pulled open the 
big unpainted door and slipped inside. 


X 


BREAKING UP 

The big bare room looked just as it always did: 
the giant fireplace, where a log fire was snapping; 
the stone chimney, the shelf above, so broad that 
Sally Belle and Pig always climbed up there and 
played cards; the rough armchairs and unpainted 
tables; the wide, many-paned windows with red cur¬ 
tains pushed back so that you saw the lake and the 
trees. This room and the tiny kitchen and the long 
dining-room beyond, with the gallery above, and the 
bunks for hunting parties, were all there was to 
camp. 

The crowd was all here and at home already. One 
boat was out on the lake. Free was in it. Sally 
Belle saw his blue sweater. Games of whist or Pitch 
Jack were started at all the tables and in front of the 
fire both corn poppers were going. Tish and Lil 
held one and Madgie the other. She dropped it and 
hurried to Sally Belle. 


130 


BREAKING UP 


131 

“Hello, darling. How did you get home last 
night ?” she said. 

It was a standard greeting. You never answered 
the question. She helped Sally Belle out of her 
wraps and pulled her down on the nearest window¬ 
sill with an arm round her waist. 

“Darling,” she said in a thrilling whisper, “Gus 
and I have got it all fixed up.” 

“What?” said Sally Belle faintly. 

“Gus is so pleased. He could hardly wait for you 
to get here. Look at him.” 

Sally Belle looked. Gus was reading a paper- 
covered Nick Carter book in a corner by the fire. 
His head was bent over it and his chair was tilted 
back. His impatience did not appear, but his yellow 
hair looked very yellow and his red tie looked very 
red. 

“He’s handsome,” said Sally Belle. 

“He put on that red tie just to please you,” said 
Madgie impressively. “Now, darling, you never 
broke up with a boy before, and you’re scared to. 
Is that right ? And Pig can’t see through a ladder 
with a hole in it. Is that right too?” 


132 


GOING TOGETHER 


“I gave him a hint and he didn’t take it,” Sally 
Belle admitted. 

“Well, don’t give him any more hints. Just start 
going with Gus. Start now.” 

“Before dinner ?” said Sally Belle. 

“Now.” 

“I—I don’t know how.” 

“I’ll show you. Unless,” said Madgie sarcastic¬ 
ally, “you’d rather run this yourself.” 

“Oh, I couldn’t,” said Sally Belle—“no. But, 
Pearl”—a question had been troubling Sally Belle 
for a week. She tried to ask it now—“if a boy 
wants to go with a girl, why can’t he go right to 
the girl and say so? Why does it have to be all 
fixed up for him like this?” 

“It’s the right way to do it. All the boys do it 
that way.” 

“Oh!” 

“Ready?” Sally Belle nodded. “Gus,” Madgie 
called, “there’s a little girl over here that wants a 
game of cards.” 

“Pearl, I can’t. I don’t want to. I can’t,” whis¬ 
pered Sally Belle, but Madgie’s arm held her tight. 

Gus put his book in his pocket and came slowly 


BREAKING UP 


m 


toward them. He stood looking down at them and 
smiling. His face was red from the fire—as red 
as his tie—and his teeth were very big and white. 
He was very tall. He seemed to grow taller as he 
stood there. 

“That right ?” he said. “Want to play cards. Miss 
Smith?” 

“Yes,” said Sally Belle firmly. 

“Who with?” 

“Guess,” said Madgie, giggling. “Somebody not 
ten miles from here. Somebody in a red necktie.” 

“You,” said Sally Belle. 

“I don’t care if I do,” said Gus elegantly. 

“I’ll play with you till you get started, if you 
want,” said Madgie graciously. 

“No, I thank you,” said Sally Belle formally. 
“Mr. Carr, you come here.” She crossed the room 
to the fireplace, pushed a chair close to it, climbed 
up and sat cross-legged on the shelf at the end. Gus 
looked up at her doubtfully. “It’s big enough. 
And,” she added with dignity, “it’s where I play.” 

“What you say goes,” said Gus gallantly. “What 
a girl says goes with me, though it isn’t every girl 
I’d say that to,” he added pointedly. “Know that?” 


I 34 


GOING TOGETHER 


He put his hands on the shelf and swung himself 
up and sat facing her. “Pretty snug up here.” 

“Yes.” Sally Belle pulled out Pig’s pack of cards 
that he kept hidden behind the chimney, shuffled 
them, let Gus cut them and dealt them. Gus looked 
at her over the top of his cards, but she looked at 
her own hand and did not meet his eyes. 

“Pitch?” he said. “Right you are. Glad you’re 
here, Miss Smith?” 

“I asked you to come. You don’t have to call 
me Miss Smith. It’s your turn to play,” said Sally 
Belle. 

“You’re a funny kid.” 

Gus laughed, but his laugh sounded pleased. 
They began to play. He did not lose his temper, 
as Pig always did at cards. He played carelessly 
and fast, but he always seemed to guess right. He 
beat her in three hands, and they started another 
game. Gus dangled his legs over the edge of the 
shelf as he sat. They were very long legs. He 
was very tall and strong and handsome, the hand¬ 
somest boy in the crowd, and by this time the crowd 
all knew that he belonged to her. One by one they 
looked up at the card game on the shelf, and looked 


BREAKING UP 


135 


politely away and talked to one another about it. 
Madgie kept smiling a self-conscious smile and did 
not look up at all. 

“Where’s Plummer?” Gus asked. He was giving 
a fancy shuffle to Pig’s cards. 

“Unharnessing. Want him?” 

“I don’t if you don’t.” 

“I don’t want him,” said Sally Belle firmly. 

She did want him. She wished he would come 
and see her up there with Gus. What would Pig 
do when he saw her ? Sometimes boys fought when 
they were angry. Sometimes when Pig was very 
angry he cried. She did not want the crowd to see 
Pig cry. Nobody came down thei path from the 
stables. She watched it. Where was he ? 

“I know a little girl that’s going for a walk with 
tne after dinner,” Gus said—“a long walk.” 

“What’s her name?” 

“Same as yours.” 

“Don’t be too sure,” said Sally Belle coyly but 
absently. 

Where was Pig? Every one else was here. Free 
had come in from the lake. The door into the 
kitchen was shut and locked. Boys shook it at inter- 


136 


GOING TOGETHER 


vals, and old Charlie, the cook, scolded at them from 
inside, and mysterious and pleasant smells came 
from there. Dinner was almost ready. Was some¬ 
thing wrong with Queen Bess or Pig? Sally Belle 
threw down her cards. 

“Don’t let’s play any more,” she said. 

“What you say goes. Flrom now on it goes 
with me.” 

Gus jumped down and held out his hand. Sally 
Belle did not take it. She sat still where she was 
and stared. The door of Charlie’s little kitchen had 
opened and a strange figure stood framed in it. It 
was not Charlie. Sally Belle saw it first, then the 
crowd saw, too, and called out appropriate greet¬ 
ings. 

“ ‘Kiss me, honey, do.’ ” 

“ ‘Darktown is out to-night.’ ” 

Bowing and smiling, and looking surprised by the 
attention she received, but gratified, a fat colored 
lady stood in the doorway. She was gaily but taste¬ 
fully dressed in a pink-and-white waist, a Turkey- 
red skirt and a blue-checked apron tied so tight that 
her waist was small, though her matronly figure was 
not. A red turban wreathed her head, gold earrings 


BREAKING UP 


137 


hung from her ears, her hands were white; but her 
face was as black as burnt cork could make it. Her 
eyes were hidden behind a big pair of smoked-glass 
spectacles, but they were brown—the brown of pine 
needles deep in the woods. The lady’s waist was 
her own, but her figure was a pillow, her apron and 
glasses were Charlie’s, her skirt was a curtain, her 
earrings were curtain rings, her turban was Sally 
Belle’s scarf—and the lady was Pig; Pig, smiling 
and winking and flirting outrageously with his eyes 
at everybody in the room except Sally Belle. He did 
not seem to see her at all. She slipped down from 
the shelf and stood by Gus. 

“That’s Plummer,” Gus explained. “He’s a case. 
I didn’t think he had it in him.” 

“He hasn’t,” said Sally Belle crossly. 

Pig waved a coy hand to command silence, did 
not get it, but raised his voice in correct coon-song 
dialect: 

“Ladies and gentlemen, friends and fellow citi¬ 
zens, dinner am served. My pal Charlie, he sent me 
out here with that liT announcement to make. 

“Oh, how them boarders yell 
When they hear the dinrfer bell!” 


GOING TOGETHER 


138 

He sang in a cracked soprano. “Lost my voice, 
and I got to keep on singing till I find it,” he ex¬ 
plained plaintively. “Lost my sweetheart too. 

“My gal has left me, 

My gal has shook me, 

Will some one tell me where she’s gone? 

“But everybody smiles on me while cornin’ 
through the rye. I got a place to eat, I got a place 
to sleep, I got a-plenty good clothes to wear, I got 
a hat on my head, I got shoes on my feet, so what 
more need I care. Choose partners and form in line 
for the cakewalk. What liT boy or girl wants to 
escort this nigger in? Don’t all speak at once.” 

They did, of course, crowding round Pig and 
fighting for him. Pig’s red turban bobbed up and 
down in the middle of a crowd of boys—all the boys 
in the room but Gus. Free Foster put down a book 
that he was reading, and came and watched and 
laughed. It was hard to make Free laugh. 

“Oh, you chaperon!” called Pig, and pushed all 
his admirers away and plunged toward Free, drag¬ 
ging torn and trailing draperies, and caught Free’s 
arm. “ T got a sneaky feelin’ for you,’ ” he an- 


BREAKING UP 


139 


nounced tenderly, and started for the dining-room, 
doing an elaborate cakewalk with Free. 

A hastily formed procession followed him into 
the dining-room and round and round the long 
tables, cakewalking two by two. Sally Belle would 
not dance, but Gus tried to. Almost everybody 
danced, and everybody sang. The tune they sang 
was a strange blend of all the best cakewalk tunes. 
Pig’s voice led all the rest. It was off key and hoarse 
and loud, but it made you want to sing with him. 
He called out words that the others forgot. He made 
up new words and sang them over and over till 
the others sang them too. They were not very 
funny words, but everybody laughed. 

“Crowd’s broke loose and old Free can’t do a thing. 

Tissue Doyle’s going to buy a wedding ring. 

Madge has shook Stub—she’s as happy as a king. 

There’ll be a hot time 1 —in this camp—to-night.” 

“All over but the cheering,” Pig announced at 
last, and at once it was. There was a scramble for 
chairs and the crowd dropped into them breathless. 
“Hey, look who’s here. Me old friend of college 
days. Comrades, comrades, ever since we were 


140 


GOING TOGETHER 


boys. Silence in the court room! The judge is go¬ 
ing to speak.” 

Charlie stood in the door with a steaming tureen 
of chowder. He made a slow round of the table 
and served it, and dinner began. 

“Any guy that can start a rough-house before 
dinner,” said Gus—“why, you’ve got to hand it to 
him. But Plummer will laugh on the other side of 
his mouth when he gets wise to a certain little some¬ 
thing. Hey, little girl ?” He looked at Sally Belle 
tenderly. 

“Yes,” said Sally Belle. “Mr. Carr—Augustus— 
will you pass the pickles, please?” 

Sally Belle and Gus were at the lower end of the 
table. The table was made of three narrow board 
tables *put together, with red cloths overlapping. 
Facing them, enthroned in state alone at the other 
end sat Pig. He had Free on his right hand and Tish 
on his left, and divided his favors equally between 
them. Tish buttered biscuits and fed him, but he 
rested his head on Free’s shoulder at intervals, and 
Free let him. He threw kisses impartially at any one 
disposed to catch them. The pillow inside his waist 


BREAKING UP 


141 

had slipped and he was no longer a perfect forty- 
six, though still an ample one. His turban was over 
one ear and his black hair showed, curling very tight; 
somebody had pinned a faded rose in it. Sally Belle 
tried to get his eye and could not. She stared at 
him. Pig was not a case. He would join a rough- 
house but never start one; he was too lazy. What 
had changed him? Was this Pig? 

"This is some swell feed,” said Gus. 

It was. The chowder was a camp chowder with 
onions and bits of pork and no milk. Charlie kept 
the coffee cups filled, and brought hot biscuits and 
fried a second batch of doughnuts, and a third. The 
crowd did not eat quite so much anywhere as at 
camp. They never did two things at once. They 
were eating now, and the rough-house had stopped 
while they ate, but it would break out again. There 
were signs of it all around the table. Girls whis¬ 
pered and giggled, boys flirted with Pig and snatches 
of song were started. The crowd had got going, 
and for the day the crowd was Pig’s and only Pig’s. 
They laughed at everything he said and did and 
watched him when he did nothing. When he slipped 


142 


GOING TOGETHER 


out of Tissue’s embrace and disappeared in the kit¬ 
chen they applauded on general principles, and 
waited. 

The chowder tureen had been filled and emptied 
three times. The table was cleared. Pig came back 
holding above his head the biggest platter in camp 
piled high with ice-cream. Charlie followed him 
with plates of cake, put them on the table, grinned 
benevolently and vanished for the day. 

“Go away back and sit down. They don’t need 
you. Not so long as they got this coon,” Pig said, 
and began to dance round the table, serving and 
singing and adding appropriate remarks to each 
helping. 

“Sweets to the sweet,” he said, serving Free first 
with a languishing air. “Lillian honey, you don’t 
need any ; you’re too cold to me now. This li’P 
pumpkin-colored coon, she’s so warm it can’t hurt 
her.” This was Madgie. He gave Gus an extra- 
sized helping, but did not speak to him. 

“Pig, you are acting foolish,” whispered Sally 
Belle. “I wish you’d stop it. I want to talk sense 
to you, Pig.” 

“Ann Eliza—Miss Ann Eliza Green,” Pig cor- 


/ 


BREAKING UP 


143 


rected her. “That’s my name, honey. I’ll talk sense 
when you talk sense,” he added in a low voice, “and 
not before.” 

She had caught at his crimson skirt. He pulled 
away and it tore in her hand. He raised the plat¬ 
ter with a flourishing gesture high above Sally Belle 
and Gus. 

“The happy couple,” he announced cheerfully. 
“They are on their honeymoon, but have had no 
chance to spoon.” Then he went on round the table, 
whistling the wedding march. 

Sally Belle did not watch him any more. She sat 
still for a while, watching the ice-cream melt on her 
plate; then she began to eat it very fast. She scraped 
the plate clean, chose a large piece of chocolate cake 
deliberately and put it in her pocket. Then she 
pushed back her chair and rose. 

“If you want to walk with me we’ll walk now,” 
she said. 

“What you say goes,” said Gus dutifully with his 
mouth full of cake. 

He finished it in two large bites, got up and fol¬ 
lowed her out of the room. Nobody saw them go. 
Nobody cared whether they went or not. The rough- 


144 


GOING TOGETHER 


house had begun again already. Pig stood on a chair 
announcing his engagement to Tish in a long speech, 
broken by clapping and stamping, and knives and 
forks beating on the table for applause. After din¬ 
ner the crowd always paired off at once and walked 
or rowed on the lake; but to-day nobody else had 
left the dining-room yet. Sally Belle and Gus went 
out of the front door and down the path to the lake. 

Dinner was the event of the day at camp. It was 
always late, but Pig had made it later than usual, 
and longer. The short September afternoon was half 
over and already the lake did not look quite so blue 
or the sun quite so bright. The boats were all at 
the slip and empty, and the lake and the shore and 
the world looked empty too. Behind them they had 
heard faint but unmistakable sounds—an im¬ 
promptu orchestra beginning to play on dish pans 
and combs. Pig was probably leading it. Gus 
laughed. 

“Queer,” he said, “how a clown like Plummer 
ever hit it off with a quiet girl like you.” 

“We’ll walk round the beach and back by the 
woods,” said Sally Belle. “I know a path. We can 
get back by six. We’ll skip stones now. I know 


BREAKING UP 


145 


where there are some. I’ll race you round that 
point.” 

“What do I get if I get there first?” Gus asked. 
It was a silly question. 

“You win the race,” said Sally Belle coldly. 

Gus did win it, but she was close behind. They 
stopped side by side, flushed and out of breath, on a 
narrow crescent of beach. She and Pig always 
skipped stones here. No matter how many you 
threw, there were just as many left; thin gray stones, 
warm in the sun, curled up at the edges like the 
petals of flowers. She picked up a stone and 
warmed it in her hand and patted it. Pig’s orchestra 
was playing louder. You could hear it plainly out 
here. You could be almost sure it was playing Ann 
Eliza. She held her head high and listened. 

“Think Plummer saw us go?” said Gus. “Think 
he’s on to us yet?” 

“I don’t know,” said Sally Belle. Her voice was 
not quite steady. “And I don’t care,” she added 
firmly. “Come along. Let’s walk. Let’s walk fast. 
I don’t want to skip stones to-day.” 

“Call this walking?” said Gus. 

“It is walking,” said Sally Belle. 


146 


GOING TOGETHER 


She led the way round the gray strip of beach. 
She stepped daintily on the smooth unsteady stones. 
It was fun, like dancing, and the lake water made 
a little tune that your feet could keep time to. Thick 
woods crowded close on one side, and on the other 
side the blue water came close and rippled and 
lapped and tried to come closer still. You could pre¬ 
tend that you were walking on water, it came so 
close. Sometimes there was no beach at all, only 
great piled-up rocks that you climbed across; but 
when you jumped down on the other side the beach 
was there again, waiting. The beach was narrow, 
but it was very long. It led you on and on. It un¬ 
wound before you as if it had no end. It was dif¬ 
ferent round every curve, always new but never 
strange. It was as long as the world. 

Gus was not used to walking on the rocks. He 
was getting very tired. He had tried to talk at 
first, but after a while he did not talk at all—he 
just scrambled and panted behind her. 

“All right, Augustus ?” she asked at last. 

They were on a level stretch of beach where you 
could stop and get your breath. Gus sat down on a 
rock and mopped his forehead. 


BREAKING UP 


147 


“I’m still alive,” he said, “and kicking. But that 
was some sprint and you are some sprinter! Say, 
why don’t you call me Gus ?” 

“I don’t like the name of Gus,” 

“Why?” 

“I just don’t—that’s all,” said Sally Belle. “Look, 
here’s where the path begins.” 

Between two trees, hard to see if you did not 
know it, a tiny gold ribbon of path led into the 
woods. It led deep in and round to the camp again. 
It was a private path. She had found it last spring 
with Pig. They worked at it together and kept it 
clear. They made a part of it themselves, cleaning 
out dead wood and cutting trail marks on the trees. 
Nobody else had been through it with them, nobody 
knew it was there. It was a secret path, her path 
and Pig’s. 

She parted the branches and plunged in and Gus 
followed her. 

“Path?” he said. “Cow track!” 

“It gets wider after a while,” Sally Belle said 
stiffly, “and you don’t have to come if you don’t 
want to.” 

“Don’t you want me ?” 


148 


GOING TOGETHER 


“Yes,” said Sally Belle. “But don’t keep asking 
me things like that.” 

“Like what?” A twig had caught in her hair. 
He pulled it out. “I can do that, can’t I ?” 

“Come along,” said Sally Belle. 

She started along the path, walking first and as 
fast as she could. You could not go very fast, the 
path twisted and turned so much. You could not 
always stand up very straight. Often you could 
not see the path except for a few steps before you. 
You heard lake water at first, but soon you could 
not hear it or see it at all. You saw nothing but 
trees and trees. The wind in the trees made a little 
noise like talking. You could almost make out 
the words, but not quite. They were beautiful 
words. 

Gus was not fat like Pig, but he made more noise 
in the woods. He tramped along behind her, breath¬ 
ing hard and stumbling over roots of trees. He 
stopped to pull twigs off his clothes. She would 
have to bring him here every time she came. She 
could never come here with Pig again. 

“Hey, what’s your hurry?” Gus said. “Where’s 
the fire? Who said this path got wider?” 


BREAKING UP 


149 


“I did,” said Sally Belle, “and it does. Right 
here. Don't—don’t you like it?” 

They had stepped out of the trees into a little 
open space roofed by tall pines but clear of under¬ 
growth and green with moss. A flat rock made a 
table, and Pig always brought candy and peanuts to 
eat here. Last spring it was here that they found 
their first Mayflowers. Gus stopped and looked 
round him. Sally Belle looked at Gus. His face 
looked damp and hot and his teeth looked too big 
for his face, like the wolf’s in the picture—“the 
better to eat you.” 

“Put a table in here and a couple of benches and 
it wouldn’t be half bad. But I don’t like the woods,” 
he said. “Never have. Nothing doing there. And 
I don’t think much of your path.” 

“You don’t have to. It’s not your path.” 

“I don’t like your path, but I like you,” said Gus. 
“When Madge told me you wanted to go with me 
I didn’t quite get the idea—you looked like a kid. 
But Madge had her eye on Plummer, so I looked 
you over, and—well, you look good to me. You suit 
me right down to the ground. We can have swell 
times.” 


GOING TOGETHER 


15° 

“Wait,” said Sally Belle, “please.” She stopped. 
Her cheeks felt hot, and she wanted them to grow 
cool, but they only kept getting hotter, so she went 
on in a faint voice: “Please say that again. I 
want to get it straight. Madgie told you I wanted 
to go with you?” 

“Sure!” 

“And Madgie wants—wants-” 

“Plummer? Sure? He’s a kid, but she could 
train him. She’s sick of Stub. Great girl, Madgie.” 

“What will Stub do?” 

“That’s his lookout. Everybody else is pleased.” 

“Oh!” said Sally Belle. “Oh!” 

“I’m pleased and you’re pleased.” 

“It wouldn’t matter whether I was pleased or 
not,” said Sally Belle slowly. “I’ve promised. I’d 
have to go on if—if I hated you.” 

“Well, you don’t hate me.” Gus smiled and his 
big teeth showed. “You like me. You like me a 
lot. Say so, can’t you? We’re going together.” 

“No, we’re not,” said Sally Bell—“not yet. Not 
till I talk to Pig.” 

She turned away from him into the path again, 



BREAKING UP 


1 5 i 

where the twisted yellow birch marked it. He 
laughed and followed her. 

The clearing was near the camp, and the path 
to camp ran quite straight from here. It was grow¬ 
ing darker fast. The gold was gone from the trees. 
Black shadows came and went; then they came and 
stayed. You walked straight through them. They 
grew wider. It was late. It was almost time to 
start home, but first, at camp, you always teased 
Charlie for cookies if you were hungry, and you 
danced the Virginia reel. That was all you could 
dance on the rough boards of the floor. The fire 
blazed high while you danced it, and the horses 
waited and stamped outside. 

Sally Belle would have to drive home with Gus, 
but she would not dance with Gus. She would not 
dance at all. She would talk to Pig. She would 
break up. She had promised. Perhaps she would 
never speak to Madgie again, but she would break 
up. Her heart ached, but it had ached all day. It 
did not ache much worse now. It would feel bet¬ 
ter if she could talk to Pig; if Pig would be nice to 
her and stop acting in the silly way that he had 


152 


GOING TOGETHER 


acted all day. She wanted to talk to him now. She 
could not wait any longer. She wanted Pig. 

“Race for life upon the ice!” panted Gus behind 
her. 

She did not answer or look back at him. She slid 
along the pine needles, almost running. She came 
to the last long slope of path. She ran. She ran 
quite fast. Her tarn came off and she waved it in 
her hand. Her braids were unpinned and she fixed 
them as she ran. She came to the pine at the end 
of the path and stopped. She stepped out from be¬ 
hind the pine and stood still and looked around her. 
Gus looked, too, over her shoulder. He whistled. 

“Left us cold,” he said. 

It was true. The path ended close to where the 
wood road began. From here you looked straight 
down through a gap in the trees at the lake and the 
camp. It was dark in the woods; it was twilight 
here and it would soon be dark. The lamps were 
lighted and the dying fire glowed red and grew 
fainter while you watched. The curtains were not 
drawn, and through the unshaded windows you saw 
the whole big bare room. There was nobody in it; 
nobody on the broad piazzas or the gray paths by 


BREAKING UP 


153 


the lake. Only, far down on the shore, one dark 
little figure moved—Charlie covering the boats for 
the night. In front of the stable, the space where the 
hayrack had stood was empty, and only one buggy 
stood there. The crowd had gone. 

“What do you know about that?” said Gus. 

“Nothing,” said Sally Belle. 

She winked her eyes to keep back the tears. Free 
often started first if the buggies were late in start¬ 
ing. The hayrack had to go slow and they could 
catch up and pass it. But she did not explain this 
to Gus. She did not want to talk to Gus. She did 
not want to talk at all. The crowd had gone and 
Queen Bess had gone and Pig had gone. Pig had 
gone without her—Pig. Pig never left her. He 
always took care of her. He always had. If he had 
left her like this it meant just one thing. She had 
done what she promised. She and Pig had broken 
up. She was going with Gus. She stared at him 
wide-eyed through the twilight. Her heart did not 
ache any more. It was a cold dead lump inside her. 

“We’ve done it now!” she said. 

Gus had no idea that a crisis had come and passed. 
He just stood there smiling his big-toothed smile. 


i54 


GOING TOGETHER 


‘Til take care of you,” he boasted. "‘You don't 
have to worry. I’ll get you home first and beat them 
all to it. I’ve got uncle’s roan race-horse that 
won the free-for-all race at the fair. Got the Bos¬ 
ton buggy too. I like a swell turnout and I like a 
fast horse, and I can handle one. You won’t ever 
have to ride again with that cheap old skate, Queen 
Bess.” 

“No,” said Sally Belle absently. 

She was thinking and thinking fast. After a 
minute she looked up at Gus with her sweetest smile. 
She made her voice as sweet as she could make it. 

“Augustus;, go get! your horse. While you’re 
harnessing I’ll walk along the road a piece and you 
can pick me up,” she said. 

“All right.” 

“I may walk quite a long way. If you don’t catch 
up with me at first, you just drive right on and 
keep looking.” 

“What you say goes.” 

It was the fourth time he had said that to-day. 
She had counted them. He walked off toward the 
stable. He swaggered and swung his arms, but his 


BREAKING UP 


155 


shoulders looked big and strong and his blond hair 
showed pale gold in the twilight. He was hand¬ 
some. He was a very handsome boy. 

“All right for you,” Sally Belle said out loud. 
“All right for you, Mr. Carr.” 

Then she stepped back into the little path that was 
hers and Pig’s. Gus would harness quickly. He 
did everything fast and well. When he grew up he 
would be rich, a millionaire perhaps, and his wife 
would wear diamonds, and curly feathers in her 
hats. The pine at the end of the path was not big, 
but it hid you from the road if you sat in just the 
right place. Sally Belle found the place and sat in 
it and folded her skirts neatly about her. Now she 
was ready for Gus. 

Gus came soon. She heard the roan’s hoof beats 
pat the road with neat, hard little pats. The Bos¬ 
ton buggy was new and well oiled and you could not 
hear it at all. He passed close in front of her tree. 
She peeped out and saw him. He drove in good 
form and sat straight and held the reins with two 
fingers. He slowed up. Her heart stopped beating. 
But he had not seen her. He made the turn up the 


156 GOING TOGETHER 

hill. The roan took the hill smoothly. The buggy 
glided silently away. Gus and his swell turnout 
were gone. 

Sally Belle gave one long sigh of delight and re¬ 
lief. Then she pulled off her tam and folded it 
under her head for a pillow and curled up into a 
little heap at the foot of the tree. She could not 
stay there long. It was getting too dark and too 
cold. She did not know just what to do next. She 
could telephone her father, stay all night at camp, 
try to walk home. But one thing was clear in her 
mind. She would not drive home with Gus. She 
laughed out loud. It was the first time she had 
laughed hard that day. After a while the lump in 
her heart was quite gone. She was happy. 

She got up at last and came round in front of the 
tree and stood there doing a little dance to warm her 
feet. It was not twilight now, it was really dark; 
soft September dark that came so early and fast. 
There were no stars, but the stars would come soon; 
one came now, while she looked—a tiny one, high 
above the camp. All the lights in camp were out 
except Charlie’s lamp in the kitchen. She turned 
away from the camp and looked up the wood road. 


BREAKING UP 


157 


If you looked hard you could make it out in the 
dark, winding through the white birches. She did 
not know what would happen next, but by this time 
she did not care very much. She felt rested and 
happy and safe for no reason at all. She kept her 
eyes on the road. 

Presently, just at the turn of the road, she saw 
something; she saw two lights. They came sud¬ 
denly, like stars, but they did not look like stars; they 
were too dim, they hung too low, and they were 
moving toward her, moving quite fast. They were 
carriage lights. She knew whose lights they were. 
She clasped her hands over her heart and pressed 
them tight against it. The lights came close. She 
could hear the old buggy rattling—the shabbiest 
buggy in town. She could see that the horse was 
white. She could hear a faintly whistled tune. It 
was a gay little tune, but it sounded sad, whistled 
so plaintively. It was Ann Eliza. 

Sally Belle ran out into the middle of the road 
and stood there. She held her arms high above her 
head and waved them. The buggy drove up and 
stopped. The whistling stopped, too, in the middle 
of a bar. 


158 


GOING TOGETHER 


“Hello, Queen Bess!” she called. “Hello, Pig!” 

“Want to get run over?” said a gruff voice from 
the buggy. 

“No,” said Sally Belle. “I want to ride with 
you.” 

She stepped to the side of the buggy. It turned 
out for her, creaking. A hand reached out and 
gripped her elbow hard. It was Pig’s hand. She 
groped for the step with her foot and found it and 
climbed in. Pig folded the robes close around her 
and wrapped a sweater round her shoulders. It 
was Pig’s old gray sweater. She pulled it round 
her tight. 

“Pig, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.” 

“That’s all right,” said Pig in a queer little whis¬ 
per, not like his voice at all. “It’s all right.” 

“Come on, Baby,” he said then in a very loud 
voice. “Come on, Bess.” 

Queen Bess whinnied once, swung the buggy 
round and plunged up the hill to the top. She 
struck into the wood road. Sally Belle looked back 
once at the camp. She could not see it. Charlie’s 
light was out. It was very dark down there on the 
shore of the lake. It looked as if no camp had ever 


BREAKING UP 


159 


been there. And the wood road was dark ahead— 
black dark; but Queen Bess knew the way. She 
went carefully over the jolts in the road. She was 
taking care of Sally Belle and Pig. Sally Belle 
found the soft place in the cushion and nestled into 
it, closing her eyes. 

“It’s a pretty night,” Pig said softly after a long 
time. 

“Yes,” said Sally Belle. “Pig, what made you 
come back?” 

“I had to. Left something at camp and I had to 
come back for it.” 

“Oh!” 

“I cut through and drove round by the Mill 
Road.” 

“Pig, what made you act that way and dress up 
that way—and—not talk to me?” 

“I couldn’t let you can me before the whole 
crowd, could I?” 

“No. Pig, where’s Madgie?” 

“I don’t know. In the hayrack—under it for all 
of me. Madgie Carr’s a has-been. She won’t run 
the crowd much longer. Can’t run me.” 

“Me either,” said Sally Belle firmly. “Pig-” 



i6o 


GOING TOGETHER 


“Waiting.” 

“Sometimes I’m not very nice. I get silly ideas. 
I’m not nice to you.” 

“I’m not kicking.” 

“Gus Carr’s handsome.” 

“Big stiff,” said Pig calmly. 

“Yes,” said Sally Belle, “he is. And who’d ride 
with a race-horse if they could ride with Queen 

Bess? And, Pig-” She choked, but went on 

quite bravely. “Pig, how could I go with another 
boy when I’m going with you?” 

Pig did not answer. They turned out of the 
Brook Road into the main road and Queen Bess 
whinnied and struck into her longest lope. She 
smelled home. Along this road little lights showed 
in farm-house windows, and now all the stars were 
out, more stars than Sally Belle had ever seen— 
new ones perhaps. Sometimes there were new stars. 
She leaned her head far back and looked at them. 

“You can sing,” she said after a while, “if you 
want to.” 

“I don’t,” said Pig very gruffly. “I—I don’t feel 
any too good.” 

“Why, Pig?” 



BREAKING UP 


161 


“You know.” 

“Why?” 

“Eve had kind of a bad day.” 

“You have?” 

“I have. Come on, Baby. It’s all right for those 
that like it, but it’s not quite all it’s cracked up to 
be—breaking up.” 


XI 


THE NEW LAW 

Two girls came down the front steps of the 
Sewall house. They ran across the lawn and started 
down the street. Sally Belle sat under the tree at 
the corner of her lawn and watched them. 

Supper was just over, June dark came late and 
this was the last night of June. It was twilight still. 
Under the low-swinging branches of the maples 
across the street you could see the two girls quite 
clearly. They were both in white. The tall girl 
wore soft, straight-falling white, and her hair was 
brushed back from her face in smooth, bright waves. 
It was golden hair—yellow gold. The short girl 
wore ruffles, fussy little fluttering ruffles that would 
not keep still, and her brown curls fussed and flut¬ 
tered, too, when she moved her little head. She 
was Madgie Carr, uncrowned queen of Sally Belle's 
crowd, and the tall girl was Lillian Sewall, Sally 
162 


THE NEW LAW 


163 


Belle’s own best friend. They walked slowly, arm 
in arm. They walked very close together. Their 
heads were close. They whispered and talked, and 
she knew what they talked about. She knew. 

They were opposite her house now. They did 
not look up. Madgie whispered something into Lil¬ 
lian’s ear. They laughed. A lump came into Sally 
Belle’s throat. She swallowed it, and drew a long 
breath and called to them. 

“Hello!” she called. “Hello there!” They heard 
her and stopped and looked at her across the street. 
They kept their arms round each other’s waists as 
they stood. “Come on over.” 

“Can’t.” 

“What’s your hurry?” Sally Belle tried to make 
her voice sound as if she did not care very much. 
“Got a date?” 

“Nothing like that,” Madgie giggled. “We’re 
just walking.” 

“Where to?” 

“Post-office. You can come if you want to.” 

“Thanks,” said Sally Belle with dignity. “I don’t 
care to stick myself in.” 

“Don’t be silly.” 


GOING TOGETHER 


164 

‘Tm not. I have to wait here for Pig.” 

“Pig!” Madgie shrugged her shoulders. She 
could shrug them just like the French maid in the 
last ten-twenty-thirty show at the hall. She could 
raise her eyebrows too. She was raising them now. 
“Oh, Pig!” 

“Yes, Pig—Harold Plummer,” Sally Belle ex¬ 
plained sarcastically, “if you don’t know who I 
mean. When Pig tells me to wait I wait. If I 
didn’t there’d be trouble. Pig won’t stand any non¬ 
sense. Pig-” 

“Some cave man!” said Madgie politely, too po¬ 
litely. “So long. See you later, at Doyle’s. Come 
on, darling.” 

She took Lillian’s arm and leaned on it, and they 
went on down the street, not once looking back. Lil¬ 
lian had not spoken once, and before supper she had 
refused to walk to the post-office with Sally Belle. 

“All right for you,” said Sally Belle calmly, out 
loud. She spread her cape on the grass, tucked 
her starched skirts under her and lay down with 
her arms clasped under her head and looked up at 
the tree above her. The girls did not want her. 
The girls did not ever want her any more. And 



THE NEW LAW 


165 


it was not just these girls who did not want her, 
it was all the girls, and the boys, too—all her world, 
her crowd. To-night she was going to Tissue 
Doyle’s piazza party and to-morrow she was going 
for a week to Camp Carr with the other girls, but 
she was not wanted there or anywhere. And at last 
she knew why. 

Sally Belle was fifteen. For three years she had 
belonged to the crowd. She was the youngest girl 
in it—the twelve-year-old kid till she lived that 
nickname down. It was hard to get into a crowd, 
but Sally Belle had soon learned that it was harder 
to stay in. There were always so many laws that 
you had to keep. If you did not keep them you 
were odd, a freak, and the crowd soured on you. 
They were unwritten laws; nobody told them to 
you; you had to find them out for yourself, and they 
changed all the time. You had to wear what the 
other girls wore and say the slang words they said. 
You had to wear short winter coats, and not long 
ones; gored skirts and not gathered; pin your hair 
with a barrette and not tie it with a ribbon. The 
boy you were going with had to stay till the clock 
struck ten when he called on you and bring you 


GOING TOGETHER 


166 

Belle Isle candy and no other kind. There were 
laws and laws, Sally Belle kept them all. Some¬ 
times they were hard to keep, but she kept them. 
She stayed in with the crowd, and in junior year 
social triumphs came. She had a poem in the High 
School Oracle, a part in the junior play—the part 
of the heroine’s grandmother. She was secretary 
and treasurer of the Happy Thought Club. She had 
all her extras engaged at dances. 

She was not a beauty like Lillian, or a queen like 
Madgie; but she had her place in the crowd. She 
had conquered her world. She conquered it and 
lost it. It was in the spring of the junior year that 
trouble began. 

It began slowly, with whispers, curious looks, gos¬ 
sip she overheard, secrets kept from her. Every¬ 
where there were signs that there was some new law 
of the crowd which she had not kept. They were 
little signs. Sally Belle felt lazy and safe. She was 
writing an epic poem, too. But in May the poem 
was done and locked up in her secret trunk of poems. 
School was almost over and vacation was coming, 
with parties and summer dresses. She had two 
flowered dimities with elbow sleeves, and some Rus- 


THE NEW LAW 


167 


sia-leather shoes. Then and not till then she looked 
round her to see what the new law was. She had 
made a dreadful mistake. She had waited too long 
and the crowd was souring on her. 

They did not make fun of her any more; they 
were cold to her and polite to her—terribly polite. 
They were not leaving her out of parties; not yet, 
but there was no time to lose. Her clothes were 
right, her hair was all right. But what was wrong ? 
All through the long dreadful month of June she 
could not find out. But last night, at the first eve¬ 
ning picnic of the year, she knew. After supper, 
sitting round the fire in the dusk, two by two, all 
the other couples began to do something that she 
and Pig were not doing. She had promised mother 
once never to do it. It looked like a silly thing to 
do, and it had a silly name that she did not like 
to say. But you had to do it; this was the new law. 
She must do it, and Pig must. They would begin 
to-night. 

“Well, Kitten?” 

Sally Belle looked up and smiled, but did not 
move. Father was standing beside her, laughing 
down at her his nice silent laugh. You did not mind 


GOING TOGETHER 


168 

when father made fun of you, though you never 
quite knew why he did it. He was on his way to 
play duplicate whist at the Sewalls’. He had come 
home late from the office to dress, and mother was 
there already, but he never hurried. He bent down 
and played with her hair, very carefully, not to muss 
it, and Sally Belle put her hand into his, and held it. 

“How is the social whirl ?” he asked, but you did 
not have to answer. You never had to answer 
father’s questions. He could answer them all him¬ 
self. “Still whirling? This must be the height of 
the season; I can remember; I was old once myself, 
just like you, Kitten.” 

“Not like me,” said Sally Belle sadly. Father was 
never a freak. He was never left out. He was 
handsome when he was a boy; she had seen his pic¬ 
tures. And he was handsome now, though he could 
not wear white trousers; he had to save washing. 
He looked very tall and cool in his neat blue serge. 

“You are nice,” said Sally Belle, “I like you. You 
are the handsomest man in town.” 

Father laughed out loud. 

“Like to have me take you to this party,” he 
asked, “instead of Pig?” 


THE NEW LAW 169 

“Yes,” said Sally Belle with feeling. She ex¬ 
plained further: 

“You’re not fat, you’re not too good to act like 
common folks, you’re not slow. And—and I like 
you.” 

Father stopped laughing, and looked at her in 
the way she liked best to have him, with his eyes 
very kind, like mother’s. 

“I like you too, Kitten,” he said very solemnly, not 
making fun at all, “and I like Pig. I’ll bet on you 
both, social whirl or no social whirl. Will you keep 
that in mind sometimes ?” 

“Yes, sir,” Sally Belle promised gravely, “I—I’d 
be glad to.” 

“Then, good night.” 

Father shook hands with her in the pleasant way 
that he had, just as if she were really grown up, and 
then went off to his whist party. 

Sally Belle felt a little better; father could make 
you feel better, without knowing what your troubles 
were at all. She felt braver, ready for the evening, 
ready for Pig. It was time for Pig to come. 

The dark was coming fast. Across her lawn and 
Pig’s lawn, in Pig’s house next door, there was a 


GOING TOGETHER 


170 

light in the back chamber window—Pig’s window. 
It had been there for some time. Pig was dressing 
for the party. He was almost dressed, and when he 
was dressed he would call for her. Sally Belle 
sighed. It was dark on the lawn, and darker above 
her, up in the heart of the tree. Sally Belle loved 
this tree. She loved to look at it. But when you 
were not quite happy the waving branches looked far 
away, and the soft deep heart of the tree was a place 
you could never climb to, it looked so far. It was 
very far to-night. 

Pig’s light up-stairs flickered and went out. Pig 
was ready. His front door opened. It slammed 
shut. He came toward her across the lawn. Pig 
had grown so fast in the last year that he did not 
look very fat, only big all over. Pie had on a dark 
coat and white trousers and new shoes. He walked 
slowly and stiffly, and they squeaked. Pig looked 
just as he always did. In a changed and hard world, 
that was one comfort. Pig was just Pig. 

“Pm coming,” he called. “So’s Christmas,” he 
added conscientiously. 

“Feet hurt?” 

“Oh, no!” Pig stopped beside her and stood first 


THE NEW LAW 


171 


on one foot and then the other and groaned. “Feet 
feel fine. Feel so good I’m going to get them cut 
off to-morrow. Too good for me.” 

“Russia leather always hurts the first time if you 
don’t put vaseline on it,” said Sally Belle wisely. 
“I told you to.” 

“I’m not a dude,” Pig objected, “nor a girl.” 

“No,” said Sally Belle with some satisfaction, 
“you’re not.” She slid down the bank to the side¬ 
walk. Pig followed and fell into step beside her. 

“Hold your horses,” he begged. 

“Your feet will feel better if we walk fast. Be¬ 
sides, we’re late.” 

“We’ll get enough of it,” Pig said gloomily, “and 
then some. I’m not much for these piazza shindigs. 
Nothing doing.” 

“There is,” said Sally Belle softly, “if you do it.” 

“Do what?” Pig argued. 

“Oh, nothing. Come along.” 

She led the way very fast up Main Street and into 
High Street. The concrete walk stopped here, and 
the board walk began. Pig’s shoes squeaked hard 
on the boards, but he had stopped limping. When 
he stood up straight he was half a head taller than 


172 


GOING TOGETHER 


Sally Belle. She watched him out of the comer of 
her eye. You could not explain things to Pig. He 
would never let you. She could not ask him to do 
this new thing. But she could make him do it. 
There were ways to make him. She had read about 
them in novels, and watched Madgie. She would 
try them all, one by one, till they worked. She 
could manage Pig. And just ahead was Pine Street, 
Tissue Doyle’s street. 

“Better now ?” she said. 

“You can call it that,” said Pig. “Hey, what’s 
the idea?” 

As he straightened up Sally Belle had slipped her 
hand through his arm. She kept it there. 

“I’ve turned my ankle. Can’t I take hold of you?” 

“Sure, I’ve got troubles enough of my own, 
though. Which ankle?” 

Sally Belle did not answer. Arm in arm, they 
turned down the dark little street where the party 
was. 

“Party!” said Pig bitterly. “Cats! See in the 
dark!” 

Tissue Doyle’s house was half-way down the 


THE NEW LAW 


173 


street. There was not much light in it. At a piazza 
party there never was. Bright lights in the billiard 
room up in the cupola, shaded lights in one room 
down-stairs, and the yellow light of the porch lan¬ 
tern, that was all; but you could see the party. They 
were scattered far apart, on the vine-screened piazza 
that ran all round the house, on the wide tree- 
shaded lawn. White skirts fluttered dimly, white 
trousers glared very white in the dark, a match 
flared up and went out, a mandolin twanged. The 
crowd was all there—her crowd. They would be 
her crowd again after to-night. 

They sat two by two; you did at piazza parties. 
You did not dance nor play cards. You just sat there 
with a boy. It was a new fashion that year. Pig 
was sliding his arm out of hers. She caught it and 
pressed it tight. 

"It’s a lovely party. Come on,” she said. 

They crossed the muddy little street and the wide 
dark lawn and stood at the foot of the piazza steps. 
The groups on the lawn did not move as they passed. 
At a piazza party new arrivals did not create much 
excitement. Nothing did. But out of the darkest 


i74 


GOING TOGETHER 


corner a tall figure, all in white, rose and moved 
lazily toward them. It was their host. He pulled 
out a pocket flashlight and pointed it at them. 

“Who goes there ?” he demanded. “I’m the chap¬ 
eron. Ma’s out. Advance and give the counter¬ 
sign. ‘Everything is lovely and the goose hangs 
high/ Oh, it’s you, is it?” 

His manner changed abruptly; it was polite but 
formal. He leaned down and shook hands with 
them both. 

“I am pleased to see you. Where would you like 
to sit? Here?” On the front door-step, full in the 
yellow light of the porch lantern, there were two 
cushions. He arranged them carefully, several feet 
apart. “Your style?” he asked sweetly. 

“Nothing to me where I sit,” Pig began sulkily. 
Sally Belle pinched his arm. 

“You and Lil can have the front steps, Tissue 
Doyle,” she said. “They won’t do for Pig and me.” 

“What will?” asked Tish coldly. 

“That depends. Is the lawn swing taken?” 

“It will be, by Lil and me.” 

“The hammock?” 

“Stub and Madge.” 


THE NEW LAW 


175 


“Back door-steps?” 

“Em saving them for-” 

“Never mind who for, you can stop saving them,” 
Sally Belle said firmly. “The back door-steps are 
my style, if you want to know. They are Pig’s 
style too. Come on, Pig.” 

“What do you know about that?” said Tish 
weakly. 

His flashlight clicked. He was pointing it after 
them. Sally Belle did not look back. Keeping 
Pig’s arm and holding her head very high, she led 
Pig deliberately but firmly round the corner of the 
house out of sight. 

Here, screened on one side by a vine-covered lat¬ 
tice and shut off on the other by the angle where the 
ell joined the house were two wide shallow steps. 
The house lights and street lights did not shine back 
here. The ell was deserted and dark. Mrs. Doyle 
did her own work and at night it always was. There 
were garbage cans here, and a big ugly wood-pile, 
but they did not show' at night. The steps were 
granite and cold to sit on, but this was a favorite 
place. The crowd always fought for it, and Sally 
Belle had it. She spread out her skirts and sat down 



176 


GOING TOGETHER 


and felt round her and found a cushion. It was 
little and hard, but she leaned back with a sigh of 
content. 

“What’s the idea?” said Pig, somewhat dazed. 
“I don’t care where we sit.” He sat down at the 
other end of the steps, crossed his legs and stared 
at her through the dark. “Say, what’s eating you 
to-night?” 

“Nothing.” 

“At any rate,” Pig said judicially, “you look swell 
to-night.” 

“You can’t see me.” 

“I don’t have to. I did. That is some swell rig. 
You look swell.” 

“That’s good,” said Sally Belle absently. 

Her white dotted Swiss was old, but the sleeves 
were cut to elbow length, and she had a wild rose 
in her hair; a swell rig, indeed; but that did not con¬ 
cern her just now. Behind her on the piazza Tish 
was laughing. He was laughing at her and Pig. All 
the others laughed too. She listened and waited um 
til the laughing stopped. 

“Pig-” she began then firmly. Pig made a 



THE NEW LAW 


177 


little, comfortable noise, answering her. “Pig, you 
don’t have to sit way over there.” 

“I’d just as lief.” 

“You can come over here by me. You can have 
half this pillow.” 

“I will if you want me to.” 

“I don’t—not unless you want to.” 

Pig considered the proposition. 

“Too much work to move,” he decided. 

“Then don’t move!” Sally Belle’s voice sounded 
cross. That was wrong. She made her voice 
quite sweet, and began again, “Pig, don’t you like 
it out here?” 

“Like what?” It was a plain but difficult ques¬ 
tion. 

“Oh,” said Sally Belle, “everything! The—the 
trees. And it’s dark. The dark is nice. And— 
and there’s nobody else here. Just you and me. 
And we don’t need them, do we? They can stay 
right where they are. We don’t care what they do. 
We don’t care at all. It—it’s nice here.” 

“My shoes hurt,” said Pig, irrelevantly but with 
feeling. “They hurt like-” 


i7« 


GOING TOGETHER 


“Take them off.” 

“Never get ’em on again,” Pig objected reason¬ 
ably. 

Sally Belle moved nearer to him. 

“Never mind,” she said very sweetly. “Isn’t it 
nice here? Just you and me?” 

“Good enough,” Pig agreed. “Hey, get that!” 

Even on the back door-steps you were not quite 
alone in the world. Out in front the crowd was be¬ 
ginning to sing. The song started in one hammock 
and spread to the others, to the piazza and all round 
it, until all the couples were singing. It was a ballad 
from the repertoire of a ten-twenty-thirty comedian. 
Nobody cared for the words, but the tune was popu¬ 
lar with the crowd that year, a gay little teasing 
tune. They sang it quite loud, all together, almost 
keeping time: 

Pa’s got a boarder and he’s very fond of ma. 

I wonder why, I wonder why. 

Papa doesn’t like him and he doesn’t like papa. 

I wonder why. 

They finished one verse, and another, and then 
stopped. A mandolin played the chorus half 


THE NEW LAW 


179 


through and stopped suddenly with the snap of a 
breaking string. Pig wriggled uneasily. 

“Makes me sick,” he pronounced. 

“What does?” asked Sally Belle anxiously. 

“That does—that fool song, and the crowd. 
Some fellows in it. Some girls too. Fools! 
Haven’t got,any sense.” He paused, hunting for a 
clearer explanation. “Fools!” Sally Belle edged a 
little closer. Pig did not notice. He was plunged 
in gloomy thoughts. 

“Well, Pig, I don’t make you sick, do I?” 

“No,” said Pig with sudden emphasis, “you don’t. 
You’re all right. Worth ten of old Madgie Carr. 
You’ve got sense, you have—good horse sense. All 
the fellows respect you. They’d better. If they 
don’t they’ll hear from me. You’re a sensible girl.” 

This was high praise, and praise was rare from 
Pig; but Sally Belle did not respond to it. She was 
silent. She was quite close to Pig now. She 
drooped toward him. 

“Pig,” she sighed, “Pig, I’m tired.” 

“You are? We can go home early. Go now.” 

“Oh, no,” said Sally Belle quickly. “I’m not so 
very tired. Pig, how—how strong you are!” 


i8o 


GOING TOGETHER 


“I don’t know about that.” 

“You are. Let me feel your muscle.” 

“What for?” 

“Oh, for nothing. I don’t have to. Pig, did you 
ever have your fortune told ?” 

“Not so you’d notice it. Old Madgie stacks the 
cards.” 

“Not cards. Palmistry. You know.” 

“Sure I know,” Pig chuckled. “Holding hands. 
Makes me sick.” 

“Me too,” said Sally Belle promptly. She sighed 
and moved back to her own corner of the steps 
again. 

Pig was lighting a cigarette. Tish could smoke 
like a man of the world. Pig could not yet, but he 
worked hard at it. He was working now, lighting 
one match after another. He got it going at last 
and puffed at it patiently, leaning over it and shield¬ 
ing it with one hand. His shoulders looked very 
big. He looked heavy and hard to move, like a 
rock or something. Pig did not even know that the 
crowd was cold to them, and the crowd had never 
been so cold as it was to-night. 


THE NEW LAW 


181 


Tish made fun of them openly. At piazza parties 
your long tete-a-tetes were broken by friendly visits 
from other couples; boys who sneaked from ham¬ 
mock to hammock and spied on you; girls who came 
and whispered confidences. This party was half 
over. It was almost time for refreshments, and 
Sally Belle and Pig had sat here all this time ignored 
and alone. They were exiles, frozen out, and Pig 
did not know it or care. The crowd was singing 
again, the song that Pig did not like: 

Sister’s got a beau. He comes to see her every 
night. 

I wonder why, I wonder why. 

They go in the parlor and they turn down the light. 
I wonder why. 

I went in the parlor to hear what they would say— 

“Sing, Pig,” said Sally Belle. “Let’s sing, too, 
with them.” 

“Too much work.” 

“Pig, I’m going away to-morrow.” 

“So’s the bunch,” said Pig calmly. 

“Aren’t you sorry?” 


GOING TOGETHER 


182 

“Why would I be? I’ll be out there, too, every 
evening. Gang’s all going. I’ll have to go,” Pig 
answered. 

“Don’t you want to go ?” 

“I’d just as lief.” 

Pig’s cigarette burned his fingers. He put it out 
carefully on the stone steps, brushed the ashes off 
his clean trousers and rose. 

“We’ll get out of this,” he announced—“get up a 
game of billiards. Something doing.” 

“They won’t play,” said Sally Belle with a little 
break in her voice. 

“You will. That’s good enough for me.” 

Pig opened the back door, groped his way through 
the empty, clean-smelling kitchen and on up the 
dark back stairs, and she followed him. One dim 
light burned in the upper hall, but the attic stairs 
were dark. Pig tramped up them cheerfully, threw 
open the billiard-room door and escorted her in with 
a flourish. 

“Come early and avoid the rush,” he said. 

The billiard room was the pride of Tissue’s heart, 
so he kept it lighted up for piazza parties, though 


THE NEW LAW 


183 


they never used it. It was not really a billiard room; 
it was Tissue’s old play room, with his new billiard 
table in the center. The billiard table was bright 
green and very ugly, but everything else in the room 
was pleasant and shabby and old; all of Tissue’s 
treasures; his printing press and magic lantern; a 
toy theater that he had built and Sally Belle had 
written plays for; a telephone he and Pig had made 
—it had never worked very well, and it was broken 
now; other things, too, that were not Tissue’s; a 
doll’s house that had once been Mrs. Doyle’s ; a sew¬ 
ing machine, files of fashion magazines, a mahogany 
cradle, a haircloth sofa. Sally Belle curled her legs 
up under her and sat down in one corner of it. 

“I’m tired. You play,” she said, and Pig threw 
off his coat and began to knock the balls about. 
Sally Belle looked round her gravely. 

“This is our style, I guess,” she decided. 

And it was. A play room with toys was the place 
for her if she could not grow up and act like the 
crowd. Well, it was a pleasant place. In here, 
where the lights were bright, she could not manage 
Pig. Madgie Carr herself would not try it. Sally 


GOING TOGETHER 


184 

Belle had not given up. Her campaign was not half 
over; it was only begun. But she could rest from it 
for a while and just sit here and watch Pig. 

Pig could not smoke as well as Tish, but he played 
billiards better. He had a free, strong swing of the 
cue and a quick, sure aim. He looked quite grace¬ 
ful and light, stepping round the table. He whistled 
while he played—a queer little tuneless whistle—and 
talked to himself. He was playing a real game; 
playing both sides of it, and keeping score. 

“I’ll play now if you want me,” Sally Belle said 
after a while, but Pig shook his head. 

“Got to settle this guy first.” 

“What guy?” 

“Tish. And he’s putting up a good game, too,” 
Pig added generously. “I’ve most got him where I 
want him, but if this shot works he may get me yet. 
Watch him.” Pig took careful aim, squinting over 
his cue and representing his rival conscientiously. 

“Too much English, old top,” he explained to the 
imaginary Tish as the shot failed. “Good try, 
though. Now watch your Uncle Dudley.” He 
gave one little, quick, careless-looking stab at the 
ball, and at once other balls hit one another and 


THE NEW LAW 


185 

rolled into position all over the table in a lazy but 
precise way, as if they had planned it themselves 
with no help from Pig at all. It was one of Pig’s 
master strokes. He threw down his cue and the 
game was over. 

“That cooks his goose,” he announced. “Hurrah, 
for our side!” He mopped his forehead, pulled 
down his sleeves and sat at the other end of Sally 
Belle’s sofa. 

“Serves him right,” said Sally Belle. 

“Old Tish!” Pig dismissed the subject. “Want 
to play or just sit here?” 

“Just sit.” 

“Suits me.” 

“Me too.” 

Sally Belle put her arms behind her head and 
leaned back and looked at Pig. He settled himself 
in his corner, adjusting himself expertly to the 
broken springs of the sofa, grinned at her in a lazy 
but friendly way, and then became absorbed in his 
own thoughts. In the old days, when life was not 
so hard and so complicated, the crowd used to play 
up here, and she and Pig had often sat here just like 
this. She was happy then. She was not very happy 


GOING TOGETHER 


186 

now. She turned away from Pig and rested her 
head on the broken arm of the sofa and closed her 
eyes. 

“Pretty slick up here,” Pig said presently. 
“Fools!” he added after a minute, and then was 
silent, pursuing this train of thought. “Poor fools! 
Say-” 

“What?” 

“Mind if I smoke?” He reached for his coat, got 
out his box of cigarettes, opened and shut it and put 
it back again, but he did not smoke. 

“Here!” he said abruptly, and he pushed some¬ 
thing toward Sally Belle—his coat, rolled into a 
hard, compact lump. 

“Pillow,” he explained. “Hundred per cent, 
feather pillow.” 

“Thanks.” 

“Say, can I have that?” 

“What?” 

It was her rose that he wanted. He pulled it out 
of her hair quite gently. The thorns did not scratch 
her, but the petals fell on her face. It was faded. 

“No good now,” said Sally Belle. 

“Suits me. Wanted it all the evening.” 



THE NEW LAW 


187 


“What for?” 

“Fish bait,” said Pig in a gruff voice. “Say-” 

“What?” 

“Oh, nothing.” 

Pig sat still on the sofa, playing with Sally Belle’s 
rose; so still that the sofa hardly creaked at all. 
Sally Belle held his coat tight against her face. 
There were tears in her eyes and she did not want 
Pig to see them. She wiped them off on his coat, 
but more tears kept coming. She was too old to 
cry. But she was tired—very tired—and nobody 
cared or knew. 

“Here!” Pig said suddenly. He said it in a cross, 
gruff voice; but the thing he pressed into her hand 
was a handkerchief. It smelled of cigarettes, but it 
was clean and large and very soft. She buried her 
face in it. 

“I’m not crying,” she said in a muffled voice; and 
then: “Oh, Pig, Pig, Pig!” 

“Spit it out!” Pig commanded fiercely. 

“I’m all right. Nothing’s wrong.” 

“Something is—has been all the evening. You 
spit it out! Tell your Uncle Dudley!” 

“I wish I was dead!” 


188 


GOING TOGETHER 


“Well, you're not," said Pig with conviction. 
“Here-" 

The coat slipped from under Sally Belle's head 
and she felt Pig’s arm there instead. It felt bony 
and hard, but comforting. After a minute it went 
round her waist, and she sat up and leaned against 
it. She peeped at Pig over the top of her handker¬ 
chief. She could not see him plainly for the tears 
in her eyes; but it seemed to her that, just as it used 
to when he was a little boy, his chin wiggled. Pig 
was sorry for her. Pig was sweet. She moved 
close to him. The lights hurt her eyes, so she put 
her head down on his shoulder. 

“Pig, they're mean to me," she whispered. 
“They're all so mean to me." 

“Why?" 

“I can’t tell you." 

“Don’t you care! You don't have to tell me. 
I’ll get after them. I’ll fix them. They can cut it 
out and treat you right. I’ll make them. I’ll at¬ 
tend to them, all right. You just watch your Uncle 
Dudley." 

“You’re not mean, Pig. You’re nice to me." 

“Kid," said Pig very gruffly, “that’s what you are. 



THE NEW LAW 189 

Always were. Always will be. Twelve-year-old- 
kid.” 

“I guess,” said Sally Belle shyly, “you like kids.” 
“That’s my business.” 

“Oh!” said Sally Belle suddenly. 

She moved her head on Pig’s shoulder, opened 
her eyes and stared up at him. She looked straight 
up into his face. Pig’s eyes looked down at her, 
puzzled and large and kind. She met them for a 
minute, then closed her eyes again with a soft little 
sleepy sigh. 

“Oh!” she whispered. “Why—why, Pig!” 
“Feeling better?” 

“Yes, lots better.” 

“Kid!” Pig put a large clumsy hand on her hair. 
It was tumbled and rough where the rose had been. 
He touched it, smoothed it and pushed it back from 
her face. 

“Pig”—she said softly. 

“What?” 

“Nothing. Just Pig.” 

“You crying?” 

“No, I don’t have to now.” 

“What’s that?” 


190 


GOING TOGETHER 


Down below doors were opening and shutting. 
There was a rush for the dining-room. Refresh¬ 
ments were served. Tish was rounding up the 
party; that was his step now, coming up the attic 
stairs. Pig started and sat up straight, but Sally 
Belle put her hand on his arm that was round her 
and held it there. 

“You sit still,” she commanded. 

“He’ll see us.” 

“Let him,” said Sally Belle. That was all she 
said, but it was a song of victory, a lovely song. 

“Let him see us!” 

At last—at last, Sally Belle and Pig were spoon¬ 
ing! 


XII 


SPOONING 

Sally Belle was powdering her nose. There 
was one lamp for all the four bedrooms at Camp 
Carr. It stood on the crossbeam where the four 
partitions met. The rough board partitions between 
the four tiny rooms did not reach to the roof. The 
lamp flame flickered and wiggled—it was Madgie’s 
day to trim the lamps—but the west-bedroom mirror 
did not blur very much. Sally Belle stared into it 
hard. She liked what she saw. The powder was 
the last touch to a correct camp toilet. All day at 
camp you wore bloomers and middy blouses, but at 
night when the boys came you wore white shirt¬ 
waists and skirts. Her white waist was turned in 
at the neck and a rose was pinned there. Her hair 
was done on top of her head. It looked cool and 
grown up. It came loose in soft baby curls on the 
forehead, but she kept them pushed back. She sat 
down on the lumpy bed and sighed. 

191 


192 


GOING TOGETHER 


She was alone up here, if you were ever alone at 
camp. All the girls slept up here, when they slept. 
Last night there was a pillow fight at twelve, and 
the night before she and Madgie sneaked down to 
the kitchen by candlelight and made fudge at one. 
Now the girls had walked up the road a piece to 
meet the boys. You could see the wood road 
through the window, with the sun setting red at the 
turn of it, and two white figures pacing slowly up 
and down—Lil and Madgie waiting for her. They 
would wait till she came. Minna Carr, the chaperon, 
ivladgie’s sister, an engaged girl—engaged to Jud 
Sewall—was in her down-stairs bedroom sewing 
lace on something. You could hear her rocking her 
chair back and forth and singing. In this crowded 
life, when could a woman think? 

Sally Belle had been here three days. Tish re¬ 
ported what he saw through the crack of the billiard- 
room door, and after that she was not an exile. She 
had her old place in the crowd and more. She made 
up songs, led charades and learned to swim under 
water. She was happy, of course; but camp was 
not so much fun as it used to be. Nothing was. 
Was she growing old ? There were no new lines in 


SPOONING 


193 


her face, no wrinkles. She had been here three 
days. She would have to stay four days more. 
She could not get away or go home, and the days 
were all so long. They were as long as weeks, and 
the evenings were longer still. The boys came at 
six and stayed until ten. 

The evenings! Sally Belle’s face in the mirror 
flushed hotly under its coat of tan. She frowned at 
it. If only you could change things somehow— 
anyhow; be a queen like Madgie and make new rules 
for the crowd; run away from the crowd, into the 
woods, and hide; go on the stage and never come 
back to Franklinville. Sally Belle spoke out loud, 
softly, so that Minna, down-stairs, could not hear. 

“Mother, I wish to go away, and at once. Do not 
ask me why.” But mother would ask why; she al¬ 
ways did. Sally Belle spoke again, kindly but very 
coldly. 

“Pig, you and I must come to an understanding, 
and at once. Do not try to talk. Just listen to me. 
Pig-” 

“Oo-hoo, Sally Belle!” Minna was trilling to her - 
from below. “Girls are waiting!” 

“Oo-hoo!” she answered. 


f 



194 


GOING TOGETHER 


Life, crowded life, with all its demands, was upon 
her again. She must live it and not try to think. 
She caught up her rose-colored sweater and ran 
down-stairs. 

“I’ve gone,” she called, and hurried out of the 
back door and along the wood road toward the girls 
and the sunset. They trilled to her and made room 
for her between them. 

“You took your time, darling,” Madgie said, “but 
you’re getting to be a swell little dresser. Some¬ 
body will be crazy about you to-night. Ears burn ? 
Lil and I were talking about you.” 

“Me?” 

“You and somebody else.” 

“If you mean Pig, say Pig.” 

“Pig, if you must call a spade a spade. We made 
a bet about you.” 

“I don’t care,” said Sally Belle, skipping as she 
walked. 

“Keep step. You’ve got to care. It’s a peach 
delight, and the loser treats you too.” 

“What’s the bet about?” Sally Belle asked. 

Madgie giggled. 

“Lil, you tell her.” 


SPOONING 


195 


“How many times has Pig kissed you? That’s 
what the bet’s about,” Lillian explained promptly. 

“Ask Pig.” 

“You’re a cool one,” said Madgie with respect, 
“but you have to tell. It’s a bet.” 

“I didn’t say you could bet.” 

“Will you tell if I tell first?” 

“I’ll think about it.” 

“Stub has kissed me just-” Madgie paused 

coyly. 

“Lost count ?” Lillian asked with interest. 

“Nothing like that. I may spoon some, but I go 
slow. Three times, that’s all. Now you tell.” 

“I can’t,” said Sally Belle calmly. “Nothing to 
tell. Pig never—never did. And no boy ever did, 
except once, in a game, and that doesn’t count.” 

“Kidding us!” 

“Am I ?” Sally Belle smiled. 

“Yes, but you can’t fool us—not any more. 
We’re on to you. Up to last week you had the 
whole crowd fooled. They all thought you and Pig 
didn’t spoon. Lil and I thought so, too, and we 
showed it, I guess. We weren’t very nice to you. 
I’m sorry.” 



196 


GOING TOGETHER 


“It’s all right now,” said Sally Belle. 

The three linked arms tight and struck into a 
double lock step that they liked, and danced on up 
the winding road. The red sun paled and sank lew, 
but kept always just ahead. Far ahead you heard 
horses coming and boys laughing. The bet was a 
silly bet. Madgie’s talk was silly talk. But it was 
good to be friends with your friends again. Lil¬ 
lian’s hair was a pale fairy gold in the sunset light. 
Sally Belle’s heart danced in time to her feet. They 
came to the end of the wood road. 

“There’s the bunch,” Madgie said. 

“It’s some bunch,” said Sally Belle. 

The Doyles’ old two-seated carriage was coming 
toward them along the main road. It came slowly, 
for the whole bunch was in it—more or less in it. 
There were girls two deep on the seats, and boys on 
the steps, on the floor and hanging on behind. Two 
boys rode beside it on bicycles. They were Stub 
and Pig. Tish was standing up and driving. Both 
these things were hard to do, for his feet were 
planted far apart, among musical instruments, 
bulky packages and assorted fruit—oranges, bananas 
and two long watermelons—but he greeted the 


SPOONING 


197 


girls cheerfully and pulled up his large patient 
horse. 

“Less speed, Mazeppa. We’re on the home run 
now,” he said. “Gang’s all here. Always room for 
one more. I said one more,” he added severely. 
“Nay, nay, Pauline!” Lillian had jumped in, tum¬ 
bling over a watermelon and into a convenient lap, 
and Sally Belle had her foot on the step. He pushed 
it off with his whip and started his horse. “You’ll 
look sweet upon the seat of a bicycle built for two,” 
he explained. “On to the finish, my Arab steed!” 

The carriage lurched into the wood road and dis¬ 
appeared round a bend of it. Madgie and Stub ar¬ 
ranged themselves neatly after a fashion of their 
own on Stub’s bicycle, with Madgie in front and 
Stub balancing behind and standing on the pedals 
as he rode. 

“Both break our necks some day,” she called as 
they started. “Got to die once. Good-by, darling. 
You don’t need us.” 

“No,” said Sally Belle uncertainly. The bicycle 
plunged down the wood road after the carriage, and 
Sally Belle’s eyes followed it wistfully. 

“Care to ride?” said Pig. 


198 


GOING TOGETHER 


He stood holding his bicycle and waiting. It was 
dusty and needed oiling, and Pig looked rather dusty 
too. There was a funny look in his eyes. It had 
been there now for three days—a hurt, sulky look. 
Pig was not so much fun as he used to be, but noth¬ 
ing was. It was not Pig’s fault. Sally Belle put 
her hand on his handlebars and they started slowly 
down the wood road with the bicycle between them. 

“I don’t feel like riding,” she said. 

“Maybe I don’t feel like walking.” 

“You can ride then.” 

“You can ride with the bunch. Don’t have to 
walk with me.” 

“They won’t let me. They’ll make me walk with 
you ” 

“Well, I haven’t got any objection,” said Pig po¬ 
litely. “Have you?” 

“No,” said Sally Belle wearily. “How are your 
shoes ?” 

“Feel fine,” said Pig stiffly, but he was limping. 
He looked at her gravely. 

“What you done to your hair?” he asked. 

“Madgie did it. Don’t you like it ?” 

“Looks fine,” said Pig solemnly. Pig had always 


SPOONING 


199 


hated her hair done high, and chased her and pulled 
out her hairpins when she tried it; but those days 
were over. 

“Looks like rain,” said Pig presently. 

“It does not,” said Sally Belle crossly. 

Pig thought for a minute. 

“You’re right,” he admitted. “I guess you’re 
right. Well, what’s doing to-night?” 

“A potato roast, same as last night. Minna’s 
tending fire. We can eat by the time we get there.” 

“The same old story,” said Pig, and they walked 
on down the road in silence. 

“An egg,” said Pig suddenly, “will bake pretty 
good if you roll it in mud.” 

“It will? I never tried it.” 

“Well, you have to take good wet mud, and not 
break it till it gets good and done.” 

“I see,” said Sally Belle, and there was silence 
again, heavy silence. 

“Here we are,” said Pig at last. 

He said it as if it were some new and surprising 
fact that he had found out all himself. He dropped 
his bicycle under a tree at the end of the wood road 
and started for the beach, running and throwing up 


200 


GOING TOGETHER 


his arms as a signal as he ran. Sally Belle followed 
sedately. 

“You don’t have to hurry,” she said. “Nothing 
to hurry for. Potatoes will be raw—always are.” 

“Looks good to me,” Pig insisted. 

He plunged down the rocks to the beach and 
waited to help her. She scrambled down the path, 
jumped from a rock into his arms and stood beside 
him. The sun was just going down, a red ball, 
slipping into the dim gray lake. All the sky be¬ 
hind it was pink with afterglow, and in the deep¬ 
est bend of the long gray beach was a thin waving 
flare of new light—the driftwood fire. It looked 
good to Sally Belle too. It looked very good. 

The crowd was busy all round it, just as they 
used to be when they were little boys and girls 
playing together, and not a crowd at all. Lillian 
was making the coffee. Her hair was in her eyes 
and her nose was shiny. Madgie was arranging the 
fruit and big saucerless cups and paper plates on a 
red tablecloth. Stub and Tish were feeding the fire, 
and arguing about a barrel that Stub wanted to put 
on. Tish was not being funny or grown up at all. 
He was too angry. 


SPOONING 


201 


“Want to stink us all out,” he shouted, “that’s 
what you want! I built fires before you were bom, 
stinker!” 

“Stinker yourself!” Stub dropped his barrel, Tish 
kicked it into the water and they began to fight. 

Sally Belle sighed deeply. If only all the eve¬ 
ning could be like this! But the pink glow was 
fading from the sky—fading while you looked, just 
as if a big cruel hand were wiping it off, and, in the 
deep clefts of rock and along the far stretch of 
shore there were black shadows already. 

But now Tish and Stub, their difference of opin¬ 
ion forgotten, were dishing up the baked beans from 
the pots where they were kept hot in an angle of 
rock by the fire. Lillian swung her coffee pot to 
the ground, left the coffee to settle, and raced Sally 
Belle for their favorite rock. Sally Belle got there 
first and spread out Pig’s sweater, reserving the 
seat. 

“Supper is now being served in the Palm Room,” 
Tish announced. 

The potatoes were cooking fast, with a crisp 
smoky smell, and everything else was ready. The 
picnic had begun. 


202 


GOING TOGETHER 


It was, as Pig remarked at long intervals while 
he ate, some picnic and some swell feed. 

Supper finished, the crowd was all, as Tish said, 
too full for utterance, so it lay there on coats and 
sweaters, or stretched full length on the rocks. The 
big fire was not quite dead. The wide bed of em¬ 
bers glowed red, and out of it slender tongues of 
flame flashed up and tried to live, but could not, and 
scattering showers of sparks shot up toward the 
stars and vanished. Stub pulled the debated barrel 
out of the water and Tish helped him throw it into 
the heart of the fire. It smoldered and tried to 
burn. This was the time Sally Belle had liked best 
at picnics in the old days—the good old days. 

“Pig, I wish they’d play something,” she whis¬ 
pered—“hide and seek. Tell them to.” 

“No use,” said Pig practically. 

No, the crowd would not play games, or even tell 
ghost stories. They would sing a little and have 
jokes about one another and sit here; that was all. 
They were singing already, Madgie and Lil, Stub 
and Tish, the crowd’s mixed quartet. They sang in 
parts, in close harmony, and very slowly and 
softly: 


SPOONING 


203 


I gave her kisses one, kisses one. 

I gave her kisses one, kisses one. 

I gave her kisses one, and she said, “You’ve just 
begun!” 

So I gave her kisses one, kisses one. 

I gave her kisses two, kisses two -- 

There were twenty-seven verses to this song. 
Sally Belle knew them all, and so did the mixed 
quartet. She picked up Pig’s sweater and rose. 

“Come along!” she said. 

“Where to?” asked Pig, rising obediently. 

“Somewhere. I can’t stay here.” 

They started along the beach, and behind them 
voices of protest were lifted from all but the mixed 
quartet, which sung faithfully on from verse to 
verse of the song. 

“Let them. It’s nothing new.” 

“Crowd will guy us,” Pig warned her. 

“Oh, you Sally Belle! Oh, you Pig! What’s 
your hurry? Where’s the fire? Got a date with 
yourselves?” and one boy’s voice, the last they 
heard, called softly but very clearly, “Oh, you 
spooners!” 

“Knock his block off,” Pig suggested. 


204 


GOING TOGETHER 


“You can't knock all their blocks off.” 

“Can if you say the word. Be pleased to.” 

“No,” Sally Belle sighed, and dropped the sub¬ 
ject. “We’ll walk to the fort and sit there.” 

“Walk!” said Pig. 

You did not walk, you groped your way along, 
stumbling on slippery stones that were never there 
by day. It was black dark, all round; a sticky, thick 
kind of darkness that pressed too close. There was 
no moon yet, and there were not many stars. The 
fort was not far away. It was not really a fort, but 
a pile of rocks, where she and Pig used to fish some¬ 
times, and play pirates. 

“Take my arm?” offered Pig. 

“Thanks, no,” said Sally Belle, stumbling. “I 
can walk very well.” 

She pulled away from him and ran ahead. She 
fell once and picked herself up before he could get 
to her. She came first to the fort, a great heap of 
blackness, darker against the dark sky. She scaled 
it, scratching her hands and tearing her skirt. She 
sat on the edge of the highest rock, panting and 
breathless, and hugged her knees and waited for 


SPOONING 


205 


Pig. He climbed up and sat beside her and rubbed 
himself. 

“Well,” he said heavily, “here we are again.” 

“Yes,” said Sally Belle gravely. 

Here they were. They had sat here last night and 
the night before. They would probably have to sit 
here every night all the week. The lake water made 
a dull, tired sound at the foot of the rocks. There 
was only the faintest line to show where the dark 
of the shore stopped and the dark of the lake began. 
You walked here round the curving shore; but from 
here you looked straight across and down, toward 
the crowd and the fire. They were not far away; 
they looked farther through the dark. As Sally 
Belle looked Stub’s barrel caught fire all over and 
blazed up quite splendid and big, like fireworks on 
the Fourth. It was dead and the crowd did not care. 
The quartet had reached the last verse of the song, 
and the last kiss. You could not hear all the words, 
but the voices sounded sweet : 

Gave her kisses twenty-seven, and she said, 

“I am in heaven.” 

So I kept a kissing on, kissing on. 


206 


GOING TOGETHER 


Kisses! Would Sally Belle ever have to kiss Pig? 
She looked at him. Pie looked changed somehow, 
even in the dark—bigger and heavier. He was rest¬ 
ing, not moving at all, not even smoking. She 
wished he would smoke. This stranger, this big 
stupid lump of a boy that she had to sit with here 
was not Pig at all, and she wanted Pig. She had 
wanted him all the week. He would never come 
back, or play with her or be any fun again. It was 
very sad, so sad that you could not cry. It was the 
saddest thing in the changed and empty world. 

“Well,” said Pig. He cleared his throat, but said 
nothing more; moved closer to her along the rock. 

“It’s not dark yet,” said Sally Belle breathlessly. 
“I mean, it keeps getting darker. The moon’s not 
up yet.” 

“Won’t be for an hour,” Pig explained—“hour 
and a quarter,” he amended. 

“I know it,” said Sally Belle. “I—I know it, 
but I—I-” 

Pig edged closer, quite close. 

“Bad sky. Looks like rain to-morrow,” he said 

very solemnly. “Well-” He raised his right 

arm, pushed it cautiously along the rock behind her 



SPOONING 


207 


and closed it round Sally Belle's waist. She relaxed 
and leaned against it, shutting her eyes. 

“Looks like a heavy rain-storm to-morrow,” Pig 
announced brightly. 

Sally Belle did not contradict him. 

“I was out gunning to-day with Free Foster and 
Jud Sewall. Didn’t get anything.” 

“You never do.” 

“But I like them. I like them fine. I like all the 
older fellows. They have some sense. Free is a 
fine fellow too. I had quite a little talk with Free.” 

Sally Belle did not answer. Pig breathed deeply 
and wiggled. He was trying to think of something 
more to say. 

“Lots of fellows going to supe in the next ten- 
twenty-thirt,” he announced. “I may try it. Good 
idea ?” 

“Good enough.” 

“May not, though. Work like a horse. Where’s 
the sense to that?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Gang at the Falls are framing up a tennis tourna¬ 
ment. Tish can lick their old Gus Carr with one hand 
tied. They don’t know it yet. Will soon. Stub 


208 


GOING TOGETHER 


talks of having prizes at his next card party. Comes 
pretty close to gambling.” 

“Yes.” 

“No real harm in it.” 

“No.” 

“Free got an eight-pound haddock, deep-sea fish¬ 
ing. Sis Clark’s blown himself to a purple tie. You 
can hear it two streets away. Say, I heard a good 
joke on him.” 

“You did?” 

“Maybe you don’t want to hear it.” 

“I don’t.” 

“Maybe you don’t feel like talking.” 

“I don’t.” 

Pig stopped talking, and sighed with relief from 
the strain. He groped for her hand, found it and 
held it, fumbling with it like a loose handshake. 
She let it lie limp in his. She sat still, very still. 

It was quiet here on the rocks. The crowd did 
not sing again. If only they would sing—any song, 
the silliest song. If the fire would blaze up again, 
or a wave from the lake wash up over the rocks and 
sweep you into the water. But lakes did not have 
waves, and that would not happen. Nothing would. 


SPOONING 


209 


This night was just like last night; and all the nights, 
all the picnics, were going to be like this, all the time, 
forever. A big sob rose in her throat. She swal¬ 
lowed it. 

If only Pig would speak again, and say something 
4 —anything. But he did not speak. He was hold¬ 
ing her hand quite tight. She looked down at her 
hand and Pig's. They looked little and queer and 
white, and not like hands at all. Pig drew a long, 
deep breath. His arm round her waist felt tighter. 
She tried to speak, but she could not. She sat still. 
Pig’s head leaned toward her. Pig's face came close 
to her face and touched it. His cheek pressed tight 
against hers. It rested there. It moved - 

“Harold Plummer,” Sally Belle said, “if you kiss 
me I’ll jump into the lake! You take your arm off 
my waist! Don’t you ever put it there again!” 

“What—what’s that?” 

“I'm through,” said Sally Belle, “that’s what it 
is! I can't stand it. I tried to, and I can’t. I don’t 
like it. I—I hate it. And I hate the whole crowd, 
too, and I hate you, Harold Plummer. I don't care 
if you never speak to me again. I’m through!” 

“Through what?” 



210 


GOING TOGETHER 


“Spooning,” said Sally Belle. 

Pig’s arm had dropped from her shoulders. She 
threw herself dqwn on the rocks and lay 
there. She was trembling all over. The trem¬ 
bling stopped, a few tears came, then they stopped 
too. A great calm descended upon her. What had 
she done? That angry voice, speaking those words 
to Pig, was her own voice. Pig would not go with 
her any more. Nobody would. The crowd would 
freeze her out forever. This was the end, and she 
was glad—glad all over. But what would Pig do 
now? What would he say? She winked the tears 
out of her eyes and sat up and looked at him. 

He had not moved while she lay there. He had 
taken the blow in silence. He was very angry, of 
course. He was too angry to speak. And all this 
was not his fault. She was a little sorry for Pig. 
She was very sorry for Pig. She wished he would 
speak to her. He cleared his throat, sighed once, 
very deeply, and spoke. 

“Thank the lord!” he said. 

“What for?” gasped Sally Belle. 

“You’re all right,” said Pig. “Shake!” 


SPOONING 


211 


His hand reached out. Sally Belle put hers into 
it. He shook it solemnly, once, and let it go. 

“You’re all right,” he repeated earnestly. Then 
he was silent as if he had nothing more to say. Sally 
Belle’s heart beat quite fast. 

“Pig,” she said softly, “what do you mean? You 
don’t mean that you don’t like it either—spooning! 
Oh, Pig!” 

“Like it? No fellow likes it that’s not soft as 
mush. The girls like it. They ask for it. A girl 
thinks you don’t like her if you don’t spoon. You 
have to spoon. You’re my girl. I’ll do what you 
want. I—I always will. But you are the best of the 
bunch, and I thought you had sense, and then at 
Tish’s darn party you—you ” 

“I tried to make you spoon,” said Sally Belle 
bravely. 

“I know it. I’ve got the use of my eyes. My 
brains, too.” 

“I guess you have,” said Sally Belle meekly. “Pig, 
are you sure—sure they don’t like to spoon? Any¬ 
body ? Madgie ?” 

“Madgie’s soft,” Pig explained simply—“born 



212 


GOING TOGETHER 


soft and she’ll die soft. A crowd likes it some, after 
they get into it. Some crowds are spooning crowds; 
get into it and keep it up. Our crowd is a good old 
crowd—a sporting bunch. Spooning won’t last 
with them. Be all over by next year—dead, same 
as ping-pong and blindman’s buff.” 

“How do you know ?” 

“Use my brains. And I had a talk with Free 
about it.” 

“You did?” said Sally Belle humbly. 

“Sure! Free’s all right. He’s a white man. 
Question is, what do you want to do now? Quit 
cold and let the crowd can us or make a bluff at it?” 

“I don’t care,” said Sally Belle. 

“You’re tired. Here-” 

Pig rolled his sweater into a pillow and pushed it 
behind her back. 

“Take half?” 

“I don’t need it.” 

Pig arranged himself deliberately, full length on 
the rock at her feet, very close to her. He leaned his 
chin on his hands and looked down into the dark 
water. The dark was a different dark now, a soft 
pleasing dark. It took care of you. It rocked you 



SPOONING 


213 


to sleep. By and by Sally Belle would think more 
about all this. Just now she could not think. She 
was too happy. She hugged Pig's sweater tight. 

“Some fun now,” said Pig softly, “sitting on a 
rock.” 

“Yes. Pig, if the crowd cans us I don’t care, as 
long as I’ve got you.” 

“You’ve got me all right. Say, just now when 
you flared up I wasn’t going to—you know-” 

“Kiss me?” 

“Yes. Kissing’s not in my line. Never will be. 
But if it was I wouldn’t kiss any girl that didn’t want 
to be kissed. Get that, do you ?” 

Sally Belle made a soft little sound that meant 
yes. 

“I won’t kiss you until you ask me to.” 

“You’ll have to wait quite a while.” 

“I can wait,” said Pig. 

He laughed, and Sally Belle laughed with him, 
just as she always used to at their sweetest, most 
secret jokes. Down at the foot of the rock the water 
made a little pleasant noise as if it were laughing 
too. The fire was quite dead now, and through the 
soft heavy dark you could not see the crowd. 



214 


GOING TOGETHER 


“Poor fools!” said Pig. “In it up to their necks, 
every last one of them!” There was scorn in his 
voice, the scorn of gods for a mortal. 

“Spooning!” 





XIII 

NOT SPEAKING 

Across the street, high up in the Palace Hotel, a 
lamp was burning. 

It lighted the little dormer window faintly. It 
was only a small, glass hand lamp, that smoked and 
smelled, perhaps, like all the hotel lamps, if you 
did not know whose lamp it was. Sally Belle knew. 
She sat alone under the tree on her lawn, and hugged 
her knees tight with her arms, and looked at it. 

“Beloved!” she whispered. 

“Good night,” she went on softly after a min¬ 
ute, “good night, beloved. . . . To—to be near 
thee—” These were words from a song. The tune of 
the song was sweet, but the words were sweeter. 
They thrilled and sighed. And they were not sweet 
enough. No words could be. It was better just to 
sit silent, alone with the light. 

215 


2 l6 


GOING TOGETHER 


Other lamps, other lights, twinkled here and there 
along Main Street and in the Square at the end. 
Down there they crowded close, like clustering stars. 
The band concert was breaking up. There would 
be concerts now every week, and dances; the Ma¬ 
sonic Ball, the Firemen’s Ball, the annual concert 
and ball of the Happy Thought Club; something do¬ 
ing every night in the town and in Sally Belle’s 
crowd. For this was vacation, Junior vacation, the 
last and the best. Next year Sally Belle would be 
a senior in High School, and after that the world 
would have to end and begin again. But it was 
vacation now, and the Donald O’Dare Dramatic 
Company was opening to-morrow night. 

They were due in town on the early express to¬ 
morrow. They would play at the hall for three 
nights and one matinee. Othen ten, twenty, thirty 
companies, other stars, could not fill the hall at a 
matinee performance. They advertised matinees 
and gave them up. Franklinville was the dramatic 
center, the county-seat, and in Franklinville, in the 
world, there was only one Donald O’Dare. 

There were two other O’Dares. Doris O’Dare 
was just Sally Belle’s age, fifteen. She could wear 


NOT SPEAKING 


217 

her hair high and play leads besides her great 
comedy star part, The Country Kid; but all day she 
wore two yellow braids and a sunbonnet and played 
with Bijou, her beautiful, curly white dog. Doris 
was Donald’s stepdaughter. Mona O’Dare was her 
mother and played all the best parts, and was mar¬ 
ried to Donald, though she was almost fat and quite 
old—thirty, at least. There was Dugan, too, the 
fat comedian. He was not very funny, but he was 
very fat—and a man with a big nose, who played 
villains and took tickets at the door; and his wife, 
who bleached her hair and painted her face in the 
daytime, and the extra men who did specialties and 
played little parts. You loved them all. You had 
to. The belonged to Donald O’Dare. 

Donald was very beautiful, slender and tall, with 
sleek, shiny black hair in two curls at the temples, 
and blue eyes that could twinkle or grow tender, all 
in the same thrilling minute, and checked suits and 
crimson ties. He could play anything; Rube in The 
Country Kid, in a sandy wig, with a straw between 
his beautiful teeth; Rip Van Winkle; hero parts in 
dress suits; and wonderful drunken parts, where he 
swaggered and sang. He was poor when he played 


GOING TOGETHER 


218 

Franklinville first, a barnstormer. \He had only 
one dress suit for the company. He had no printed 
hand-bills to distribute at the houses and use as pro¬ 
grams at night; he had to announce the name of the 
play from the stage each evening. 

“Donald,” Sally Belle sighed. “What’s this dull 
town to me? Donald’s not here. Dear Donald. 
Acushla Machree! 

“Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, 

Donald Machree, 

I’d go to see thee in every part, 

And shelter thee.” 

Those songt that the crowd made for Donald! 
Those were beautiful songs, beautiful days, gone 
now forever. Donald was no longer poor. He was 
famous and rich. He carried special scenery, a 
fountain, a cannon. He bought new songs and old 
Broadway plays. His poster in front of the hall 
was exquisite, red and yellow and brilliant green; 
a clergyman choking a lady in evening dress, while 
a convict in stripes looked in at the window. His 
play for to-morrow night was the Broadway suc¬ 
cess, One Night in June. 


NOT SPEAKING 


219 


To-morrow night! Sally Belle shivered. It was 
almost here. It might come out all right—things 
did sometimes, but sometimes they did not. Any¬ 
way, she was committed; the die was cast; she 
could not get out of it—the dreadful thing that she 
and Madgie and Lil were doing to-morrow night. 

In the Plummers’ house next door, silhouetted 
against a window, was a quiet hunched figure. Pig 
reading by the library lamp. Pig would not come 
out here and sit with her. Pig was mad with her. 
And—and Madgie and Lil were coming toward her 
now down the street. 

Madgie held Lil tight by the arm and carried her 
curly head high; they had been quarreling, and it 
was never any use to quarrel with Madgie. Right or 
wrong, she got her own way. She was queen of the 
crowd. Sally Belle cast one hunted look behind her 
at the garden and the dark orchard, but it was no 
use to hide. She sat up very straight and waited. 

“Hello, people!” she called elegantly. 

“Ah, there, S. B.!” Madgie used Sally Belle’s new 
nickname; very dignified; a name for a society 
woman and a senior. She crossed the street with 
^mall, dainty steps and sat down on the grass by 


220 


GOING TOGETHER 


Sally Belle, pulling Lillian down beside her with 
an affectionate but firm hand. “Greetings. Star 
gazing?” 

“No, I—I like to sit here. That lamp there looks 
pretty.” 

“Didn’t he have that room last year?” 

“Who?” 

“Donald.” 

“I—I guess so.” 

“Well, it makes no odds.” The queen arranged 
her skirts elaborately and patted her curls into place. 
Then she drew from her bosom a small pink en¬ 
velope. 

“Now,” she announced, “we will get down to 
brass tacks.” 

“Suits me,” said Sally Belle faintly. 

The queen patted her knee. 

“That’s the girl! S. B. doesn’t get cold feet. 
She’s a dead game little sport, that’s what she is, 
and I wish some people were more like her. I men¬ 
tion no names.” 

“I have not got cold feet,” said Lillian sulkily. 
“I just merely-” 



NOT SPEAKING 


221 


“Tish is mad with Lil,” Madgie explained wear¬ 
ily. '‘Stub is mad with me, too, for that matter.” 

‘Tig and I aren’t speaking,” said Sally Belle 
softly. 

“The boys are jealous,” the queen admitted. 
“Boys get jealous. And they know something is up, 
but they can’t queer it. They’ll be busy ushering. 
What a boy doesn’t know can’t hurt him, and what a 
boy does know can’t hurt him, either, if you just sit 
tight.” This piece of wisdom was not new to the 
queen’s subjects, but they had never found any an¬ 
swer to it, and they did not now. She smiled, 
shrugged her shoulders, in her best manner, and took 
from her pink envelope a thin sheet of paper, folded 
small and scented heavily with her favorite perfume, 
Flo we r-o f-the-W orld. 

“I will read the letter,” she announced. “Well, 
S. B., what’s eating you?” 

“I thought we were all going to write it. All 
three together.” 

“You thought wrong then. Possibly you would 
prefer to write it yourself.” 

“I’m class poet,” said Sally Belle bravely. 


222 


GOING TOGETHER 


“This is not a poem,” the queen explained; “it 
is a letter. A social letter.” 

“I see,” murmured Sally Belle, and the queen 
cleared her throat delicately, and began to read: 

“Dear Donald-” 

“Could—couldn’t we say Mr. O’Dare?” 

“We could not. It’s too cold,” said the queen 
firmly, and read on without further interruption. 

“Dear Donald: 

“We are three young girls of this town and we 
send you this little token of these few flowers. 

“They grew' in the gardens of this town, the same 
as our deep respect and affection for you. The 
roses are not as sweet as you are, Donald, and the 
bachelors’ buttons look just like your eyes. The 
forget-me-nots mean—but you are familiar, of 
course, with the language of flowers. 

“May we not speak with you in a warmer lan¬ 
guage, dear Donald, and tell you of our deep affec¬ 
tion and respect? We understand that you are a 
married man, and we do not wish to come between 
you and any one, or make trouble. Though still 
quite young, we know life. We merely wish to 
speak with you. 

“We will wait for you after the show in the ice¬ 
cream parlor next door to the post-office. Peach 
delights are unequaled there. If you accept, wear 
a rose in your buttonhole when you come out to 
make your curtain speech, and we will understand. 



NOT SPEAKING 


223 


We are seated in the second row, the three aisle 
seats on the left, and have on black skirts and white 
shirt-waists and red roses in our hair. We will 
close now, dear Donald. 

“Hoping to see you soon, 

“Yours sincerely, 

“Three Young Girls. 

“P. S.—The girl in the middle seat is the writer 
of this letter.” 

“I don’t see much point to the post-script,” said 
Lillian. 

The queen flushed. 

“Well, you have to have a post-script,” she said, 
“in a social letter. You can make any corrections 
you care to,” she added graciously. But no cor¬ 
rections followed. Sally Belle was silent. Lillian 
was sulky but impressed. 

This, then, was the letter, the epoch-making letter 
which was to change the world. Kid Giles, Stub’s 
little brother, was to sit in a corner seat of the gal¬ 
lery and guard the flowers. They would be wrapped 
in wet newspaper to keep them fresh until the crucial 
minute. The letter would be tied to the flowers with 
an elegant bow of satin, pink, blue and rose, their 
three favorite colors. When Madgie gave the sig- 


224 


GOING TOGETHER 


nal—she was to take out a side-comb, comb her hair 
with it and put it back—Kid would drop the flowers 
on the stage. Kid was efficient and close-mouthed, 
and he would do anything for money. They would 
pay for his gallery seat, and give him fifty cents, 
twenty-five in advance and the balance the morning 
after. The plan was simple and complete, and it 
was a month old, but it seemed startling and new to¬ 
night, with the fatal letter actually written. Sally 
Belle put out a timid hand and touched the scented 
sheet; Donald’s hand would touch it. 

“It is a beautiful letter,” she said solemnly. 

Lillian wriggled uneasily. 

“Suppose you can’t get those flowers,” she began; 
“forget-me-nots and all.” 

“Then I can change the letter and make up some¬ 
thing else,” said the queen calmly. 

“Think you’re smart, don’t you?” 

“I am smart,” the queen asserted. 

“Tish says Donald drinks.” 

“He doesn’t.” 

“And Mrs. O’Dare drinks, too; and they have 
awful fights, and Tish-” 



NOT SPEAKING 


225 


“Who are we sending these flowers to, Donald or 
Tish?” the queen inquired severely. 

Lillian ignored the question. 

“Suppose we can’t get aisle seats. Suppose-” 

“Suppose nothing,” said the queen firmly. And, 
indeed, it was too late for vain objections now. 
For better or worse, the adventure had begun. The 
three friends looked at one another gravely. Lillian 
laughed a little, excited laugh. 

“We’re in for it,” she admitted. 

“You bet we are,” said the queen; “and it will 
be the biggest stunt this bunch has ever pulled off. 
We are in for it and we go through. No more sup¬ 
posing. No more cold feet. I’ll ’tend to Kid and 
the flowers. Lit and I will go down-town now and 
buy the tickets. We’ll meet outside the Hall at a 
quarter to eight to-morrow. And—and that’s all.” 

Silently, by common consent, three hands went 
out, met and clung in their ancient, secret grip. It 
dated back to prehistoric days, grammar-school days, 
but it carried comfort still. 

“That’s the idea!” said the queen. “Are you 
with me?” 



226 


GOING TOGETHER 


“Cross my heart.” 

“Till death do us part,” they responded, accord¬ 
ing to formula. 

She rose, drawing Lillian’s arm through hers. 

“Coming, S. B.?” 

“Thanks, I prefer to sit here.” 

“Suit yourself. So long.” The queen patted 
Sally Belle’s head in the superior way that Sally 
Belle did not like. 

“Cheer up. The worst is yet to come.” 

The words were only slang of that year, a pass¬ 
word of the crowd, but they echoed rather solemnly 
in Sally Belle’s ears as her two friends passed out 
of sight down the street. She could hear them 
laughing. Lillian’s laugh sounded excited and gay; 
her cold feet were forgotten already. Lillian was 
only a child. What did she really know of cold 
feet, of misgivings and doubts and fears? Sally 
Belle’s heart ached with them. The letter was beau¬ 
tiful; a social letter, indeed; and with touches of 
poetry, too. She could never have written it. 
Would Donald really meet them? If he did, what 
would happen ? They might take elocution lessons; 
go on the stage. Anything might happen—every- 


NOT SPEAKING 


227 


thing. But Sally Belle did not feel happy. She 
felt ashamed and afraid, and she did not know why. 
She sighed. Pig’s light next door had gone out, 
but across the street the light in the dormer window 
still burned. She looked at it- 

“Pleasant night,” said a gloomy voice. 

Sally Belle pulled down her skirts and sat up and 
frowned. Footsteps had come toward her across 
the lawn unheeded, though they were solid footsteps. 
A bulky figure stood between her and the light. It 
was Pig. Pig was correctly dressed for calling, in 
white ducks and large, immaculate buckskin shoes, 
but he was not calling on Sally Belle. That was 
clear, for he stood in front of her with his hands in 
his pockets and his feet far apart and his head poked 
forward, and looked away from her, over the top 
of her head, into the tree above her. He appeared 
to address his remarks to somebody seated there, 
and not to Sally Belle. 

“Some night,” he observed; “and if anybody was 
to sit here long enough, there would be some moon.” 

“If I was not speaking to a girl,” said Sally Belle 
very softly, “I would not sit with her.” 

“A person,” Pig remarked, “if they sit down 


228 


GOING TOGETHER 


under a certain tree when a certain other person 
happens to be sitting there also at the same time, is 
not necessarily sitting with them. Not at all.” 

He looked at Sally Belle out of the corner of his 
eye, but she did not meet his look. He sighed 
heavily, turned up his trousers and sat down by Sally 
Belle, leaning against the tree. 

“A person,” he explained loudly and cheerfully, 
“has got a right to sit any place that he wants to sit, 
and he’s got a right to talk, too. Talk’s free. No 
law against it. A person can talk to himself. Talk 
to a tree, too, for that matter. Some trees have got 
more sense than some people. Hey, Tree?” 

The tree did not contradict him and Sally Belle 
did not. Pig patted his pocket. It bulged in an 
interesting way. 

“Tree,” he confided softly, “I’ve got a present 
here for a certain girl. Got it right here in my 
jeans. And it’s not candy, either. It’s something 
else—something that this girl wants, and I want 
she should have everything she wants, even if it is 
foolish. Well, she wants this all right. It’s a 
swell present, Tree.” 


NOT SPEAKING 


22 9 


The tree and Sally Belle did not claim the present 
or reject it. 

“Of course," said Pig firmly, “any girl that wants 
a present from me has got to speak up and ask for it. 
That's fair enough. And any girl that stops speak¬ 
ing to me has got to speak first before I will speak 
to her." 

Sally Belle sat very still, as if she had not heard, 
but after a minute she also addressed the tree, look¬ 
ing far up into the soft green dark of it. 

“Any boy that says anything mean to me has got 
to take it back before I can possibly speak to him." 

Pig seemed prepared for this ultimatum. 

“Donald O'Dare drinks," he said promptly; 
“drinks like a fish; and his wife drinks, too. I can 
prove it by several persons. I said it, and it’s true. 
But I take it back. You hear me, Tree?" 

If the tree heard, Sally Belle did not seem to. 
She clasped her arms round her knees and rocked 
gently back and forth in the grass as she sat. Pig 
watched her. He sighed. 

“Girls are the deuce," he said; “hey, Tree? But 
we can’t keep house without ’em." 


2 ' 3 ° 


GOING TOGETHER 


Sally Belle did not acknowledge the compliment. 
She went on rocking. 

“Tree,” Pig began slowly and rather solemnly, “I 
didn’t come here to give presents to-night. Not 
necessarily. Not at all. I—I had other reasons. 
Care to hear them? All right. Well, a certain lit¬ 
tle girl is going to get into trouble, Tree.” 

Pig paused impressively. The tree made no com¬ 
ment, but Sally Belle had stopped rocking. 

“Going to make a fool of herself,” Pig explained; 
“a darn fool. Excuse my French. Now, Tree, I 
think a lot of that girl. She gets notions into her 
head, but she gets them out again. She’s a mighty 
fine little girl, and I don’t like to see her get into 
trouble. You get me, Tree?” Pig’s voice was quite 
husky and low, tender almost; any tree or any girl 
ought to have understood. 

“Now,” he went on, “I can fix things for this girl 
‘—fix them fine. I’ve got a way all doped out and 
I’ll do it—be pleased to—if she’ll just say the word.” 
Pig waited, but no word came from the tree or from 
Sally Belle. 

“Any word. Just my name,” he coaxed softly. 

“So that’s how the land lies,” he added elegantly* 


NOT SPEAKING 


231 


after a minute. “It’s completely up to the girl 
How about it, Tree?” 

Pig had nothing more to say. He stopped and 
looked quite hopefully at Sally Belle. She turned 
and sat looking straight up into his eyes. She 
looked at him hard for a minute, then turned away 
and leaned against the tree again, cuddling close K> 
it. 

“Tree,” she said very sweetly, “please tell your 
friend I don’t want his old present, and when I need 
his help in—in any connection, I will ask for it. 
And if he wants to sit here, he’ll have to keep still 
and—and not talk to me.” 

This was final and very clear. It seemed to de¬ 
press Pig, but not surprise him. He sighed, settled 
himself heavily against the tree and pulled out his 
new silver cigarette case. 

“Light up,” he muttered; “freeze me out if I 
don’t, they’re so cold to me here. . . . Fair and 

warmer, but not so darn warm yet. Well, I know 
when I’m licked, but I don’t stay licked. Not long. 
Hey, Tree?” 

He had lighted a cigarette. He sat hunched far 
forward, puffing hard at it. He could smoke now 


GOING TOGETHER 


232 

as well as Tish. He could make smoke rings. He 
was making them now. Sally Belle watched them 
form, float and break. Poor Pig. She would speak 
to him soon and make up. Pig did not understand 
her. He never did. But he was very sweet to her. 
He was always sweet. It was sweet to sit here be¬ 
side him and look at the light. It was a beautiful 
light, little and very near. Sally Belle stirred in the 
grass and sighed. 

“Oh, Tree,” she whispered, “Tree-” 

For Sally Belle had a secret. It was too beautiful 
to tell, almost too beautiful to keep, but she had kept 
it all evening. She had it now, safe and warm in 
her heart. She had been alone in her room, looking 
out of her window, when the afternoon express came 
in. She had seen the hotel hack drive down from 
the station and stop with a flourish; seen the one 
passenger step out. He walked to the hotel piazza 
with the splendid, swaggering step that was like no 
other walk in the world, and on the piazza he 
stopped, turned and looked straight across the street, 
up at her as if he could see her; and Sally Belle saw 
him. She saw his check suit—a bigger check than 
last year—his crimson tie, his smile, and for one 



NOT SPEAKING 


2 33 


wonderful minute, his eyes. He had arrived a day 
in advance, unheralded, like a king traveling incog¬ 
nito. She did not know why nor care. His high 
concerns were beyond her. Anyway, he was here. 

That was her secret. Nothing else mattered. 
She was not afraid any more about to-morrow night. 
She was happy. Madgie and Lil did not know it, 
Pig did not know it, but she knew. He was here, 
under the same starless sky, breathing the same air 
she breathed. He was up there now in that gabled 
room, and that lamp over there was his lamp'—his. 
Donald. Donald O’Dare. 

“Kind of nice sitting here; hey, Tree?” said a 
voice in her ear. Pig had edged closer to her. He 
wanted very much to make up. She was sorry for 
Pig. She let her hand slip out of her lap and lie in 
the grass. Pig’s hand found it and tried to hold it, 
and held it. Sally Belle let him. 

“Holding a person’s hand is not speaking to a per¬ 
son,” Pig muttered sulkily; “not at all.” 

“Tree,” said Sally Belle softly, “tell your friend 
he’s a nice friend to have and I’m glad he’s out here 
with me, and—and it’s perfectly beautiful sitting 
here.” 


2-34 GOING TOGETHER 

“Good night, Beloved,” Donald’s lamp was say¬ 
ing. The worst was yet to come, but she had to¬ 
night. 


XIV 


ONE NIGHT IN JUNE 

Sally Belle held her program daintily between 
two fingers, and tried to read it. It was hard to 
read; it was such a very bright green and the letters 
all danced about so. Only Donald’s name at the top 
stood still and looked very black and stared at her. 
She knew the program by heart already; she folded 
it and slipped it inside her waist. She would paste 
it into her memory book. For better or worse, she 
would remember to-night. All day she could not 
believe that it would ever come. The day had been 
hard, and mother had made it harder. Mother did 
not approve of ten, twenty, thirty cent shows, even 
of Donald O’Dare’s. 

“The O’Dares are respectable people,” she said, 
“Mrs. Sewall’s hired girl knows Mrs. O’Dare’s 
mother. She lived on a farm before she went on 
the stage. But she paints her face in the daytime 
235 


236 


GOING TOGETHER 


and their plays are not all nice plays. I would rather 
have you stage-struck, dear, than silly about the 
boys. But you need your sleep. And you saw East 
Lynne last week.” 

“This is different,” said Sally Belle. 

“That’s what you always say. I don’t see what 
your father is thinking of.” That always meant 
Sally Belle was to have her own way, and she had it. 
To-night was here at last and she was here—here in 
the left-aisle seat in the second row, with Madgie 
and Lil beside her, whispering, with their heads close 
together. She sat up straight and smiled bravely 
and looked round her at the hall. 

“A sea of faces,” that was what you saw. The 
hall was more than half full. Behind her, in the 
three back rows, the peanut rows, little boys, 
crowded close together, stamped their feet and 
clapped; up in the gallery in the twenty-cent seats 
girls and boys sat two by two with boxes of candy 
to eat; and all round her in the thirty-cent seats was 
the cream of the audience ; a Donald O’Dare audi¬ 
ence; mothers and fathers, who all approved of 
Donald; theater parties made up to welcome him. 
The boys were all here and ushering. 


ONE NIGHT IN JUNE 


237 


Pig had the gallery. There was not much to do, 
but he walked up and down a good deal and pre¬ 
tended that there was. Close in front of Sally Belle, 
so close that she could almost feel the heat, the foot¬ 
lights were lighted; kerosene lamps; but the smell 
was like no other kerosene, no other smell in the 
world. 

“Gone to sleep, S. B. ?” Madgie asked in her sharp 
little voice. 

“Not exactly.” 

“How's your nerve?” 

“Quite well, I thank you.” 

“Lil’s lost hers.” 

“Who wouldn’t?” Lillian demanded. “There’s a 
whole crowd here from the Falls eating marshmal¬ 
lows two rows behind us.” 

“Let them eat. Did you think we’d be alone in 
the hall?” 

“I don’t care to make a fool of myself before the 
whole town,” Lillian objected weakly, and sub¬ 
sided, staring at her program with sulky, big, blue 
eyes. 

Madgie leaned close to Sally Belle, wafting 
Flower-of-the-World perfume. 


238 


GOING TOGETHER 


“Bend your head back, S. B.,” she whispered. 
“Can you see Kid ?” 

“I can see the flowers.” 

Kid’s seat, the end seat in the gallery, close to the 
stage, held a bulky newspaper package, and nothing 
else. 

“I don’t like the looks of it. I don’t like the way 
Kid acts.” 

“He acts all right,” said Sally Belle absently. 

“He’s got the whole fifty cents. Got it out of me 
this morning. Then he tried to duck into Doyle’s 
store and hide from me this afternoon. He’s scared 
of me. And where is he?” 

“Right there,” said Sally Belle. A very small, 
very black-haired and red-cheeked boy had climbed 
over the rear benches into the front row of gallery 
seats. He slid into his place and sat there holding 
the flowers firmly between his knees. He stared 
solemnly at the old green curtain that hid the stage. 
Madgie watched him anxiously. 

“I can’t get his eye,” she complained. 

“You don’t have to. Not yet. When are you 
going to have him—you know—do it?” asked Sally 
Belle. 


ONE NIGHT IN JUNE 


239 


“Some time in the first act. If you see a good 
chance before I do, you can pinch me. S. B., aren’t 
you scared at all?” 

“No, but you are. It’s almost time to begin. 
Don’t let’s talk any more.” 

Madgie flushed and was silent. She was really 
scared, Madgie, the queen. Well, Sally Belle was 
not. You could not be, it was all too exciting. You 
were in the hands of fate. Let the adventure go on. 
Let the curtain rise. 

The curtain bulged at one corner. Some one was 
looking through it; looking at her, perhaps. Don¬ 
ald? The piano was behind the scenes and some 
one was fingering it lightly, going to play. A tune 
came from it— Egypt, soft and slow, with loud, 
bangy chords. The boys in the peanut rows kept 
time to it with their feet. The curtain creaked, 
lifted slowly an inch or two, stuck, dropped, and 
moved again smoothly and quickly all the way up, 
and you saw the stage. 

“Scene, a room in the parsonage, Pleasantville. 
Time, one night in June. Maggie, a waif, maid 
in the parsonage, Doris O’Dare,” the program 
said. 


2'40 


GOING TOGETHER 


You saw a rose-lit room and a girl in the corner, 
playing. Sally Belle leaned forward, enchanted, 
noting details. 

The back drop was the old drawing-room drop 
that all companies used at the hall, gray with three 
gilt arches; but in the arches chintz curtains hung; 
cushions were everywhere; and there was a screen, 
too, covered with chintz. The banquet lamp and 
the piano lamp were rented from Doyle’s store, and 
so were the two chairs. They were the chairs that 
Doyle always rented; the gilt one and the green 
Morris chair; but the red plush sofa was almost new. 
Behind it was something strange—a safe. What 
was it doing in a room in a parsonage, Pleasant- 
ville ? 

The girl at the piano was rising, coming to the 
front of the stage. She carried a red feather duster 
and wore a black, maid’s dress and a frilly apron 
and cap. The dress was too short and showed her 
slender, silk stockinged legs to the knee. She had 
grown an inch since last year, but her yellow hair 
was as yellow as ever, and her shy smile just as 
sweet. Doris O’Dare! She spoke, in her high 
clear voice, that was just the same in all her parts. 


ONE NIGHT IN JUNE 


241 


“Master is late to-night; but when the cat’s away 
the mice will play.” 

Sally Belle settled back in her seat with a sigh of 
content. Doris would tell what the play was about; 
maids always did. She was dusting the gilt chair 
with the tip of her duster and talking fast but dis¬ 
tinctly, so that the audience would understand the 
plot. 

“Master is often late, and he is so gloomy in these 
days, so sad and strange, that I dare not play or sing. 
He has quarreled with Miss Alice. A lover’s quar¬ 
rel? Are they really engaged? She is too young 
for a minister’s wife; too gay and bright; but since 
Master Charlie left, I have not seen her smile. Dear 
Master Charlie, where are you to-night ? Ah, me, I 
wonder.” 

Charleworth Strong, brother to the Reverend 
Stephen Strong, and alias Charlie the Dope; that 
was Donald O’Dare. He was the black sheep. He 
gambled and drank and he had done something 
wrong about papers and a will and a bank and a 
mortgage and Miss Alice’s money. The papers were 
lost, and they had to be found before twelve o’clock 
to-night, or Miss Alice would lose her home. Doris 


GOING TOGETHER 


242 

wanted some papers, too, to prove who she was. 
She had been left at the parsonage door in a basket 
when she was a little baby. She wanted a mother’s 
love, a father’s care. It was a beautiful plot, a 
beautiful play. 

Doris wiped her eyes on her apron. Both chairs 
were dusted, so she went back to her first chair and 
began to dust it over again, humming Egypt softly. 
She stopped and looked into the wings and listened. 
You could not hear anything there, but Doris could. 

“Masters step? He must not find me here,” she 
said, and was gone in a flutter of flying skirts. Her 
little dog barked faintly once in the wings—Doris 
would not act without him—then all was quiet. 
You could have heard a pin drop, but you would not 
have dropped one. For suddenly, with a lovely 
thrill, you knew what the quiet meant, and the 
empty, rose-lit stage waiting. It was early in the 
play for the star to appear, but you knew who would 
enter next. Sally Belle clutched Madgie’s hand. It 
felt cold in hers. She pressed it tight. She pinched 
it. 

“No,” Madgie whispered, “not yet. I—I can’t.” 

“They’ll fade.” 


ONE NIGHT IN JUNE 


243 


“On ice they’d keep till to-morrow night. I—I 
*eei sick, S. B. I want to go out in the air.” Sally 
Belle braced both feet firmly against the seat in 
front, cutting off the exit. 

“Sit still,” she whispered fiercely, “or—” There 
was no time for more. From behind the scenes, the 
mysterious region that anything might come from 
any minute, a voice came faintly, singing; a high, 
throaty, tenor voice; a voice you could never forget, 
and never quite remember, it thrilled you so—Don¬ 
ald’s voice. Donald was coming now, through one 
of those three arches, out on that stage. 

“Razzle-dazzle, razzle-dazzle, 

Umpty ump, de ump, de umpty-ump— 
Razzle-dazzle-” 

You heard the words of the song, and the gay 
challenging tune, then shuffling footsteps and then— 
then he was standing there in the center arch, Don¬ 
ald himself. All there and more wonderful than 
you expected—he always was; his blue eyes, his 
teeth, his flashing smile, his black, black hair that 
curled. A tall hat was stuck jauntily on the back 
of his head, his high collar was unfastened, his tie 



•44 


GOING TOGETHER 


hung loose, he wore a scarlet waistcoat with bright 
brass buttons. He carried a half empty bottle. 
Beautiful! This part was a drunken part and he 
was drunk now. He raised the bottle high above 
his head, put it to his lips, drained the last drop and 
tossed it into the wings. 

“So much for you, old friend,” he said in a rich 
thick voice, his drunken voice. He walked with his 
drunken walk to the front of the stage and sank 
into the Morris chair and sat looking round him at 
his old parsonage home, at the audience, at Frank- 
linville, with his blue eyes—Donald’s eyes. 

“A bad penny always comes back,” he said. 

A bad penny! That was a wonderful line, ex¬ 
quisitely funny. You adored him for saying it. 
He was singing, talking again. He was very drunk. 
He hated his brother Stephen. He was in love with 
Alice. He had come back here to-night to fix things 
for Alice and do something about the papers, but he 
could not remember what—he was too drunk. His 
head ached. He wanted to see his mother, who was 
dead. He made you laugh and cry all at once. 

“Mother,” he said, “nothing is changed in this old 
house of yours, only I, your son. If you could see 


ONE NIGHT IN JUNE 


245 


me now. Ah, mother—Alices—Sweet Alice! The 
boat rocks. Captain, stop the ship. I want to get 
out and walk. Stephen, my evil genius, I’ll get you 
yet. But I must sleep now—sleep.” He tumbled 
against the chintz screen, caught it and clung to it 
and laughed a lovely, drunken laugh. 

“My bed,” he explained, “most ’straordinary bed. 
It rocks. Don’t rock the boat. My bed is like a 

little boat.--Razzle-dazzle — Alice — Stephen — 

Sleep—” With one last graceful stagger he vanished 
behind the screen. He lay there on the floor with 
one patent leather pump sticking out. He was quiet 
and just in time. Some one was coming; you heard 
voices off stage. 

“S. B., I’m scared pink. Don’t—don’t let’s do it 
at all,” Madgie’s voice was whispering, but Sally 
Belle hardly heard. The chintz curtains were part¬ 
ing and two new figures appeared, a man in clergy¬ 
man’s clothes and a lady in evening dress. The 
clergyman was the man with the big nose, who 
always played wicked parts. The lady was dear 
Mrs. O’Dare. 

She was Alice Gordon, orphan daughter of the 
Squire, sweet sixteen and the belle of Pleasantville. 


246 


GOING TOGETHER 


Her dress was white with blue ribbons, and her 
sweet little shoes were blue. She was not quite so 
fat as last year, but her face looked older. It was a 
kind face and she had a nice kind smile, like Sally 
Belle’s mother, but she was not smiling now. She 
was not happy at all. Though he was a clergyman, 
the man with the nose was a very bad man indeed. 

“Stephen,” she said to him, “dear friend, it can 
not be.” 

“Alice, it must be,” he answered sternly. 

“Must ? Those are strange words, Stephen, from 
you to me,” she answered bravely. 

But the man with the nose only laughed. He had 
a cruel laugh. He wanted to marry Alice, though 
she did not love him at all. If she married him, he 
would save her home, but if she did not, he would 
send her out into the world, a penniless orphan. She 
had to decide before the clock struck twelve and it 
was eleven now. And he had one more card to play. 

“Speak on. I do not fear you,” Alice said. 

But she did fear him. Anybody would. He was 
dreadful. He got worse and worse as they talked. 
And the card that he had to play was Donald. 

“Charleworth Strong. The man you love.” 


ONE NIGHT IN JUNE 


24 ; 


Alice bowed her head. She did love him, she 
could not deny it, though he would never know, and 
the words had never passed her lips before. Charle- 
worth Strong had spoken no word of love to her, but 
she loved him, and she was not ashamed of it—she 
was proud. 

Stephen could ruin him—prove that he was a thief 
and put him in jail. He threatened to. But Stephen 
had gone too far. Alice stopped crying and wiped 
her eyes. She was not beaten yet. She would meet 
Stephen here again in half an hour. Now she must 
be alone. She must have time to think. 

“I am a woman and weak, but I will fight for the 
man I love as a lioness fights for her young. Look 
to yourself, Stephen Strong,” she said, and turned 
and swept proudly off the stage. 

The man with the nose only laughed his wicked 
laugh again. 

“Mine,” he said, “mine at last, but I must have 
food now—drink. Maggie,—where is the girl ? 
Maggie—” still calling, he walked off into the wings. 

And now the rose-lit stage was empty again but 
it was peaceful no longer; it was a dreadful place, 
where dreadful things could happen and soon would. 


GOING TOGETHER 


248 

Wicked Stephen; would nothing stop him and save 
Alice? Was there no help for her. The screen 
moved cautiously, it was pushed aside, and out from 
behind it stepped a heroic figure. It walked with 
long purposeful steps to the front of the stage and 
stood there looking noble. 

Donald, but how changed in those few short 
minutes, how beautiful. He was not drunk at all. 
His collar was straight, his tie was arranged in a 
perfect bow, like a made tie, and his black hair was 
brushed smooth. He looked like the hero of the 
play and he spoke as a hero speaks in a deep voice 
that came from his boots. His words were a hero’s 
words: 

“1 have heard all. I am myself again. Now for 
the papers. Alice, I’ll save you yet.” 

He was beside the safe now, bending over it, busy 
with the lock, touching it deftly with long graceful 
fingers. He worked fast and well. Would the lock 
open? Would he save Alice? You could not tell. 
For the first scene was over. The curtain fell 
quickly and smoothly and hid Donald and the stage. 

Sally Belle sat spell-bound and gazed at the cur- 


ONE NIGHT IN JUNE 


249 


tain that hid him as if she could see straight through 
it. She heard all round her the loud applause of a 
Donald O’Dare first night, and languid clapping 
from the gallery and stamping from the peanut 
rows. She did not clap. She could not. Her 
heart was too full. The curtain was down for three 
minutes to indicate the passing of half an hour. The 
lights in the house were low, but you could see 
figures, faces—Pig in the rear gallery door stand¬ 
ing with folded arms, like the villain in the play; the 
crowd from the Falls, eating their marshmallows— 
eating and laughing, when Donald was in danger; 
Madgie and Lil. They were whispering to each 
other, and looking coldly at her. Her allies were 
deserting her, but Sally Belle did not need them. 
She caught Kid’s eye and winked at him solemnly 
once, and he winked back at her. The curtain was 
rising. She sat up very straight and fixed her eyes 
on the stage. 

She saw it now through a kind of rosy mist. She 
could hear voices talking, but not the words they 
said. Alice was waiting for Stephen and talking to 
Maggie the waif. They talked for a long time, but 


250 


GOING TOGETHER 


at last Stephen came. He wore a long crape coat 
that made him look wickeder than ever. He threw 
it off and gave it to Maggie and sent her away. 

He was alone with Alice. He was drawing the 
curtains tight, listening at all the doors, to make sure 
that nobody heard. He had a paper for Alice to 
sign, a promise to marry him. He got an inkstand 
and a big quill pen, and gave them to Alice. She 
was going to sign; she was writing. Stephen was 
guiding her hand. She had signed. She threw 
down the pen and hid her face and sobbed, and 
Stephen looked gloatingly at the paper and at her 
and spoke cruel words: 

"Little girl, you are in my power.” 

"No, you are in mine!” 

The tables were turned. It was Donald’s voice 
that spoke. Donald stood there confronting the 
guilty Stephen. Had he been there all the time, hid¬ 
ing behind the screen ? Anyway he was there now, 
in the center of the stage—of the world. Donald 
O’Dare to the rescue. And what a rescuer he was! 
He was radiant, splendid, a love for any lady. You 
could trust him with Alice’s future, with your own— 
with anything. He had snatched the fatal paper 


ONE NIGHT IN JUNE 


251 


from Stephen, crumpled it and tore it, all with one 
fine free gesture. Stephen cowered before him, his 
hands held above his head, and Alice sobbed softly 
and stared at him. And in Donald’s hand, pointed 
straight at Stephen’s black heart, was a lovely, 
gleaming revolver. 

It was a wonderful picture, a wonderful moment. 
There could be no moment like it in this play or any 
play. Now was the time to act, and it was not hard. 
Promptly, as if some force outside her had moved 
it, Sally Belle’s hand went out and touched Madgie’s 
head, her hair, her side-comb. She jerked it out, 
waved it in the air once, twice, and pushed it back 
into Madgie’s hair again. Madgie struggled and 
whispered, but Sally Belle did not listen. She did 
not look at Madgie or Kid. She looked at the stage, 
at Donald, Donald O’Dare. 

“And thus we three meet again,” Donald said in 
his deepest voice. “You give but a cold welcome to 
the prodigal. Is there no greeting here? No word 
for me?” 

For a minute, there was not. The whole audi¬ 
ence was silent, breathless, hanging on Donald’s 
words. The gallery was under his spell and not a 


252 


GOING TOGETHER 


candy box rustled there. Even the peanut rows 
were quiet. Not a whisper, not a sound broke that 
thrilling silence. And then—then it happened. Kid 
rose in his place, took aim and flung out his arm 
and threw. Kid was earning his money. He 
threw with all the strength of a promising baseball 
arm and his aim was good. Down from the gallery, 
straight at the noble head of the hero, came—what 
was it? Something shapeless and large and hard, 
something grotesque and horrible; a cabbage, a 
pumpkin, a cannon ball? You could not guess what 
it was, it came so fast. Donald ducked his head just 
in time. It missed his face, but it struck the re¬ 
volver in his hand. The bright weapon dropped 
from his grasp and fell to the stage and lay there, 
with the hideous missile beside it. And this was the 
prodigal’s welcome, the tribute of Franklinville. 

It was only the flowers, of course, wrapped in 
their layers of paper, which Kid had not taken off, 
but you could not think of that. You could not 
think at all. Panic gripped you and held you. It 
was all like a bad dream, when things happened and 
you could not stop them, terrible things. Noises 
came from all round, laughing, applause, hisses. A 


ONE NIGHT IN JUNE 


253 


horrid sound came from the peanut rows; was it a 
cat-call? Franklinville was laughing—laughing at 
Donald O’Dare. 

He stood still and let them laugh. His hat had 
fallen off. He picked it up and dusted it and put it 
on the back of his head at a gallant angle. Then, 
deliberately, he picked up the horrid thing at his 
feet, holding it between two fingers, and threw it into 
the wings. 

“Any rotten eggs in the house? No? Then if 
no other boob wants to queer this show, we will con¬ 
tinue the scene,” he said. 

It was a brave speech, a wonderful speech, better 
than any speech in the play, and Donald was won¬ 
derful. He faced the audience unsmiling but calm, 
like Horatius at the Bridge or the boy on the burn¬ 
ing deck. He was a hero still—still Donald O’Dare. 
But Sally Belle heard no more. Somehow she had 
got to her feet and down the aisle to the door. She 
turned there for a last look at Donald. She might 
never see him again. Then she slipped out of the 
door and shut it softly. She heard steps behind her 
but did not look back. She ran down the stairs, out 
of the hall to the street, started up it, still running. 


XV 


SPEAKING 

Main Street was empty and safe. There was no 
one to see her or stop her, but the lights all along it 
were like eyes that could see her. Her own house 
was dark, but one little light winked at her from the 
library window. It laughed at her. But the lawn 
was dark and the big tree at the corner spread its 
branches dark and wide, a refuge just as it always 
used to be when she was a little girl and cried. She 
crept under it and threw herself face down on the 
grass and lay there. She was very tired. 

What had she done? She did not face the whole 
problem yet. She could not. But one by one, 
dreadful questions came into her mind and would 
not go away. Had she wrecked the play, wrecked 
Donald’s whole career ? He would open the flowers, 
read the note, learn her name, and what would he do 
to her then ? He might sue her for damages, write 
254 


SPEAKING 


255 


about her in newspapers—anything. Anyway, she 
had lost him, lost Donald. Would Madgie and Lil 
ever speak to her again? Would—would Pig? Oh, 
the worst was no longer yet to come. It had come. 
It was here and now. 

And some one was coming toward her, up the 
street, coming with slow firm steps, coming from the 
hall. Had they missed her already and followed 
her ? Sally Belle shrank back against the tree as if 
it could hide her, and sat up and looked, then she 
lay down again and hid her face in the grass. It 
was not Donald who was coming, it was not an 
enemy, it was no one who mattered at all. It wa9 
only Pig. 

He was standing on the other side of the street 
and looking across at her. He could not see her 
there under the tree but he would find her. She did 
not care. She was even a little glad. She lay quiet, 
waiting for him. He crossed the street, stood on 
the sidewalk, looking up, crossed the lawn straight 
to her, and stood beside her, watching her, then he 
sat heavily down beside her on the grass. 

If he scolded her or laughed at her or spoke to her 
at all, she could not bear it. She could not bear any 


256 


GOING TOGETHER 


more. But he did not speak. He just sat there, 
very still. After a while, she nestled a little closer 
to him on the grass, and turned her face toward 
him. She wanted to hold his hand, but she felt 
afraid to. Pig seemed to know it, for soon he 
reached over and took her hand in his. It felt very 
big and warm and kind. A sob came into Sally 
Belle’s throat, but she swallowed it. 

“Oh, Pig,” she whispered, “Pig—Pig—Pig.” 

“That’s my name,” said Pig. She had spoken 
first, but he took no notice of that. He just held 
her hand. Sally Belle pulled it away and brushed 
the tumbled hair out of her eyes and sat up and 
smiled at him. 

“I feel better,” she said. 

“That’s all right,” said Pig rather gruffly. 

“What is?” 

“Why, everything,” said Pig with a little laugh. 
It was a queer little laugh, but she liked it. 

“Pig, what happened at the hall ?” 

“I hung round to see how it came out, then I came 
after you. The show’s going on—going fine. 
O’Dare’s got them going, eating out of his hand, 
same as they always do. He’s a swell actor, all 


SPEAKING 


257 


right. And I doubt if he drinks very much. Not 
like he used to. No great harm in drink. Not that 
I ever heard of.” 

“What—what became of the thing they threw?” 

“Oh, that!” said Pig carelessly. “Seems it wasn’t 
rough stuff at all. It was a bunch of flowers. Some 
girl had a crush and threw them. O’Dare laughed 
when he opened them, but he was mad too.—I was 
behind the scenes and I heard him talk about them. 
He don’t like crushes. He’s crazy about his wife. 
He’s a swell fellow; swell actor, too.” 

“What girl threw them?” 

“Search me,” said Pig, lighting a cigarette. 

“Wasn’t there any name with them ? Any note ?’ # 

“No.” 

“Sure?” 

“I ought to be!” Pig chuckled. 

“That’s funny,” said Sally Belle faintly. 

“Why?” 

“No reason,” Sally Belle felt herself blushing. 
She changed the subject quickly. “What’s that in 
your pocket ?” 

“Present for you. Two presents. Care to see 
them?” 


GOING TOGETHER 


258 

“Yes, if you please,” said Sally Belle meekly. Pig 
fumbled in his pockets and pulled out a package and 
a letter. He dropped them into her lap and smoked 
hard while she looked at them. She looked at the 
letter first, looked again, then sat quiet, holding it. 

“Why don’t you read it?” Pig asked softly, after 
a minute. 

“I don’t need to.” Sally Belle did not need to. 
The letter was not new, it was old—two days old 
and it felt older, for it was crumpled and torn and 
the ribbon bow in the corner was draggled and limp, 
but it still smelled faintly of Flower-of-the-World 
perfume. It was the letter to Donald. 

“Where did you get it?” she breathed. 

“Bought it,” Pig explained calmly, “from Kid. 
Yesterday. He told on you, but we had to beat him 
up first. We paid him a dollar. He likes his bread 
buttered both sides, but he’s a good little kid.” 

“He’s good and you’re good too. You’re good to 
me.” 

“What would I be?” asked Pig simply. He 
moved close to her and held the light of his cigar¬ 
ette toward Sally Belle’s other present. “Have a 
look,” he suggested. 


SPEAKING 


259 


“I don’t need any more present. Not now,” said 
Sally Belle, but she opened the package and looked. 
She looked at a big, shiny, unmounted photograph—* 
a face. Pig’s cigarette did not give much light, but 
she knew the face. It looked straight into her eyes 
with big eyes and smiled. It was Donald’s face and 
across the corner ran a scrawly inscription. And 
the writing was not Pig’s, it was Donald’s. 

“For the dear little girl in the end seat in the 
second row. Yours sincerely, Donald O’Dare.” 

That was all and Sally Belle could not have read 
more; in her eyes was a little mist of hot sudden 
tears. 

“Why, Pig,” she whispered, “Pig—” 

“O’Dare fixed it up for me to-night. We’re 
getting to be pals. He’d do anything for me. Some 
souvenir. Madgie won’t be jealous. Oh, no. 
What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?” 

“Yes, oh, yes.” 

“A girl that’s my girl can’t make a fool of her¬ 
self while I’m on the job. And whatever she wants, 
I want she should have it,” said Pig, very gruffly 
indeed. “Get me?” 


26 o 


GOING TOGETHER 


“I get you,” said Sally Belle. 

Pig puffed at his cigarette, making round perfect 
rings. They were beautiful in the dark. She 
watched them. Down in the hall, lights still showed 
through the trees, but it seemed to Sally Belle that 
everything that had happened there that night had 
happened a long time ago. It was sad, but very 
sweet. Donald was hers again. Pig had given him 
back to her. And across the street in the hotel Don¬ 
ald’s lamp would soon be lighted. She could watch 
it again as she had last night. 

“Good night, Beloved,” she whispered. Were the 
words quite so sweet to-night? Was the song a 
silly song? The new photograph dropped from her 
lap to the grass, and she did not pick it up. 

“Pig,” she said, very low. 

“What’s eating you?” 

“I’m getting too old to have crushes. I guess I 
won’t have any more.” 

“Not till the next time,” said Pig. 

“Not till the next time,” said Sally Belle, very 
softly and sweetly. “Pig, I’m glad I spoke first.” 

“What’s the odds? I’d have spoken first if you 
didn’t. You know that.” 


SPEAKING 


261 


“Yes, I know. Don’t let’s be mad any more. 

Not ever. Pig, it’s funny-” 

“What’s so darn funny?” 

“Maybe it isn’t funny, but—well, Pig, nothing 
is any good, when I’m mad with you.” 



XVI 


THE BOY FROM AWAY 

Sally Belle sat on the front door-steps of the 
S'ewall house reading a letter from Pig. In the ham¬ 
mock behind her Lillian Sewall and Madgie Carr 
were whispering and giggling and watching her, 
but she did not care. All up and down the little 
tree-shaded street the June light was fading fast, 
but she knew Pig’s letter by heart. The writing 
was scrawly and black. It was on yellow copy 
paper, with blue ruled lines. 

Camp Content, June 14. 
Miss Sally Belle Smith, 

Friend Sally Belle: Arrived here yesterday. It 
is pleasant here. There are some pleasant fellows 
here. The cook is a nigger cook, and he is some 
cook. While writing these few lines to you, he 
walked past the porch and said, “Are you writing to 
your best girl?” A nigger does not have much 
sense, but a nigger sure can cook. 

Will close now and write more soon. Am writ- 
262 


THE BOY FROM AWAY 


263 


ing these few lines to let you know I arrived safely. 
The mountain behind this camp or shack is one 
thousand, five hundred and eighty-two feet in 
height. 

Your friend, 

Harold Plummer. 

Sally Belle slipped the letter into the front of 
her new surplice waist and folded her hands above 
it, like the girl in the old engraving in her front 
hall, The Love Letter . This was her first letter 
from Pig, her first letter from a boy. Friend Sally 
Belle! That was not very romantic—it was not 
even good manners; but it did not matter. Noth¬ 
ing did, to-night. It was the sweetest night. No 
night that June, no night in any June had ever been 
so sweet. She did not quite know why. 

“On such a night,” she whispered; it was a quo¬ 
tation, she did not know what from. “On such 
a night-” 

It was a gray, still night. There was no wind, 
but the air felt soft and cool on your face, like 
your mother’s hand touching you. There were no 
stars yet, but they would come soon; the sky was all 
ready for them, all smooth and soft; if you threw 
back your head and looked you could see deep into 



264 


GOING TOGETHER 


it, up and up, with only the twilight, gray and thin, 
between you and all the big sky. Main Street looked 
little but very long. It led past this house and her 
house and the high dark tree that she loved, on and 
on, past the sleepy, far lighted town, straight into 
the heart of the sky. 

There was a very old game, called Magic Music. 
Children played it; soft music went on while you 
played; it went louder when you played right and 
lower when you played wrong, and when it was 
very loud that was the end of the game. Music on 
an old square piano, tinkly and thin and clear; music 
that waited for something and wanted something. 
This night wanted something, too. What did it 
want? The stars? Music—Magic Music. The 
words were very sweet. 

Sally Belle stirred and sat up straight on the steps 
and looked over her shoulder up Main Street. Some¬ 
thing was going to happen; it had happened three 
times already while she sat here. This was the 
long quiet time between supper and late-train time. 
Main Street was empty and almost dark, but far 
up Carr’s Hill, beyond the railroad station, she saw 
two lights, the side lights of an old-fashioned buggy. 


THE BOY FROM AWAY 


265 


It crept down the hill, crossed the track, crossed 
High Street and did not turn. It was Free Foster’s 
buggy and his sorrel colt. It was the strange boy 
again. 

He was boarding with Free Foster and tutoring 
for college-entrance exams. He had been in town 
a week and no girl had spoken to him yet, but they 
had all seen him in church. He had driven past the 
house three times to-night but he had not once 
looked in. He was here again. Sally Belle shut her 
eyes tight and put her hands over them, then she 
opened them wide and looked. 

The boy was a Boston boy, in dark Boston 
clothes. He was slender and tall and sat high on 
the springless buggy seat and drove carelessly and 
well. He was bareheaded and his hair was a pale 
silver gold, like Lil’s. He had a beautiful face; you 
could not see it clearly, but while she looked he 
turned his head slowly and looked at Sally Belle, 
straight at her through the dusk. He did not smile. 
His eyes looked very big and very dark. He looked 
away from her quickly and drove on down the street 
very fast. She leaned far forward and looked 
after him, but he did not look back. He was whistl- 


266 


GOING TOGETHER 


ing now, an old tune, with silly words. College glee 
clubs sang it. She loved it. It was Veazie. 

Way down in Veazie—I’m livin’ easy— 

On pork chops greasy—I’m livin’ high- 

The sorrel was not carriage-broke yet. It was 
hard to handle. The buggy swung around the cor¬ 
ner of Church Street on two wheels, and the trees 
hid it. 

Sally Belle had stared at the strange boy—stared 
hard. If he came back she would not look at him. 
She would sit up very straight and not look at all, 
but she wished he would come. 

Something else was wrong, too; she missed some¬ 
thing. What was it? It was the girls in the ham¬ 
mock. They were not laughing now, only whis¬ 
pering, and very low, so that she could not hear. 
Sally Belle knew these signs. They were very bad 
signs indeed. She jumped up and went and perched 
on the piazza rail and looked at the two girls, Lil¬ 
lian blushed. Madgie giggled. 

“Hello, darling,” she said sweetly—too sweetly. 
“Come on in. Water’s fine. Lots of room. Always 
room for you.” 



THE BOY FROM AWAY 


267 


“What’s doing?” Sally Belle asked sternly. 

“Nothing. Never is, in this dead old town. Did 
you have a sweet letter? Awful sweet? Going to 
read it to us?” 

“No.” 

“I’ll bet you aren’t. I’ll bet it’s some letter.” 

“It’s a private letter,” said Sally Belle coldly. 

Madgie was jollying her, changing the subject. 
Madgie was planning something and leaving her out 
of it. She would not ask what it was. There was 
a way you could smile, that always made the girls 
angry, a little absent smile; she had practised it 
with a mirror. She smiled. There was a long, 
awkward pause. Lillian wriggled in the hammock 
and cleared her throat twice, but did not speak. 
Madgie fluffed out her skirts and patted her hair 
elaborately. 

“Life’s short,” she announced; “can’t stick around 
here forever. Guess I’ll go for a little walk. Com¬ 
ing, Lil?” 

“I—I don’t care if I do.” 

“Good girl. You sit right here, darling, all comfy, 
and read your nice letter.” 

“It’s too dark,” said Sally Belle. 


268 


GOING TOGETHER 


“Light the lantern. We’ll be right back. Lil and 
I just want to take a little walk, that’s all.” 

“Tell her,” said Lillian sulkily. 

Madgie raised her eyebrows elegantly. 

“Tell what? There’s nothing to tell.” 

“She’ll find out anyway. And—and it’s mean not 
to tell.” 

“I don’t care to be told,” said Sally Belle stiffly. 

“Madgie and I are going riding. Buggy riding 
with a boy.” 

“Indeed?” 

“What are you going to do about it?” 

“Nothing,” said Sally Belle simply. “What boy?” 

“Don’t you wish you knew? The boy doesn’t 
know yet, but he will soon. And it’s not Stub nor 
Tish.” 

“So I infer,” said Sally Belle with dignity. 

Lillian blushed very red. 

“Madgie is Stub’s girl, and I’m Tish’s girl,” she 
admitted sulkily. “I know that just as well as you 
do. I’m going with Tish—simply going with him, 
that’s all. Tish can’t own me; no boy can; it’s a 
free country. You don’t own me, either, Miss 
Smith.” 


THE BOY FROM AWAY 


269 


“I don’t wish to, Miss Sewall.” 

“You make me tired! I’m not a prig like—like 
some people, but I hope I’m a lady. I wouldn’t 
pick up a boy on the street, but if the boy spoke 
first—if—if you came, too-” 

“Thanks, I don’t care to come.” 

“You don’t have to. And I don’t have to tell 
you every time I turn round.” 

“You don’t have to tell me,” Sally Belle smiled; 
“I know.” 

v You know quite a lot,” retorted Lillian un¬ 
easily. 

“I know this,” said Sally Belle slowly—“a boy 
from away is different. They aren’t like us. They 
don’t act the way we act. They don’t talk the way 
we talk. They wear different clothes. They—they’re 
different. You can call me a prig if you want to. 
I don’t care. And I don’t care what you do. It is 
nothing to me—absolutely nothing. I’d do it, too, 
if I felt like it. I—I don’t happen to feel like it. 
But if I were you I’d take any boy in this town be¬ 
fore I took a boy from a big town, from Boston. A 
boy from away.” 

Sally Belle stopped. Her voice choked her; tears 



270 


GOING TOGETHER 


were beginning to come and the girls must not see 
her cry. 

“If you’re going, go,” she said coldly. 

Lillian rose and stood shifting from foot to foot 
uncomfortably. Madgie, who had listened to this 
discussion calmly, jumped up with the assured ele¬ 
gant air which kept her queen of the crowd, slipped 
her arm through Lillian’s and laughed a shrill little 
laugh. 

“Sarah Isabel Smith, you’ve got a crush on that 
boy yourself!” she said. 

“I,” stammered Sally Belle—“I-” 

“Don’t let her get your goat, Lil. A boy from 
away is the same as any boy, after you get him go¬ 
ing. I’ll show you. Come on.” 

Lillian came. When Madgie decreed it you al¬ 
ways came. They hurried out of the yard, up the 
street and out of sight, with their heads close to¬ 
gether. They whistled a tune, slightly off key, and 
kept time to it with little dancing steps. The tune 
was Veazie. 

Sally Belle sat down in the hammock and pulled 
the pillows all round her and hugged them tight. 
She did not light the porch lantern. The dark was 



THE BOY FROM AWAY 


271 


best when you were trying not to cry. Lillian would 
beg her pardon, and kiss her, and make up. Lillian 
loved her best; Lillian was her own best friend. But 
first the girls would ride with the new boy at Free’s. 
Madgie could get any boy she wanted. How did 
she get them? What did she say? She would get 
this boy and ride with him past the house, laughing. 

Sally Belle watched the street patiently, waiting 
to see. 

She did not want to see. She curled up in the 
hammock, hiding her face with the cushions. Her 
heart ached—really ached, with a little queer new 
pain. Madgie always flirted and Sally Belle did not 
care, but, somehow, she cared to-night. She cared 
very much. Pig’s letter crackled in her waist and 
she crumpled it and threw it on the floor. It was 
not a love-letter, only a letter from Pig. She 
stretched out and lay still. She could rest here— 
sleep, perhaps. She would feel better soon. She 
could not flirt, but she could do other things that 
Madgie could not do—poor Madgie! Sally Belle 
could think long, lovely thoughts, all alone in her 
heart; write poems, too; only there were no poems 
in the world to-night. The late train whistled at the 


272 


GOING TOGETHER 


Falls. It called to her like a voice. The train was 
the Boston train. It came straight from the cities, big 
strange bright-lighted cities, and stopped here. Any¬ 
thing that was in the cities could come here on that 
train—something wonderful, something sweet. Soon 
it would whistle again, nearer. She lay quite still, 
waiting to hear it. Poor Madgie! 

“Sleeping Beauty,” a voice said. 

Sally Belle rubbed here eyes and tried to sit up. 
She had slept, really slept, and dreamed of some¬ 
thing pleasant. The dream was gone. Was the 
voice a dream voice? No, for it spoke again, low 
and clear, close beside her. A boy was standing be¬ 
side her, a tall boy with silver-gold hair. 

“Miss Smith,” he said. 

“It’s you,” she tried to say—“you. I knew you’d 
come!” 

The mist cleared from her eyes. She sat up 
straight in the hammock and hugged her knees tight 
and looked at the boy. She was wide awake now; 
awake in a cold alien world, and her legs ached. The 
boy was not a dream-boy. He was the new boy at 
Free’s. He was not so handsome, close to. His 


*THE BOY FROM AWAY 


273 


nose was not very straight. But his Boston clothes 
were quite beautiful clothes; smooth blue serge, and 
they fitted in all the places where boys’ clothes did 
not fit. What was he doing here? She frowned 
at him. 

“Miss Smith”—he pronounced his words in a 
close-clipped Boston way that she liked to hear— 
“pardon me for butting in, but Miss Sewall and 
Miss Carr are going to drive to the lake with me. 
They are in my rig, round the corner on High 
Street, waiting, the colt won’t stand on Main Street. 
I came to ask if you would care to go, too.” 

“I see,” said Sally Belle gravely. 

The boy smiled; he had a nice smile, and nice 
white teeth, even and very small. Her rose-colored 
sweater had dropped to the floor. He picked it up 
and held it over his arm, smoothing it. 

“Take your time,” he said. 

He was sure she would go with him, very sure. 
Girls always went where he asked them to, and 
flirted with him and picked him up on the street. 
Sally Belle smiled. She was afraid of strangers 
but she was not afraid of this boy. She was not 
afraid at all. When she was ready to talk she would 


274 


GOING TOGETHER 


know just what to say to him. She was ready now. 
She spoke politely but very coldly. 

“You have the advantage of me.” 

“The which?” 

“The advantage. I have not met you. We have 
not been introduced.” 

The boy looked puzzled. 

“I never ride with a man to whom I have not 
been introduced.” Sally Belle explained clearly. “I 
—I make it a rule.” 

The boy smiled, and this time she did not like his 
smile quite so well. 

“Your little friends aren’t so choosy, Miss Smith.” 

“That is their business.” 

“They gave me the glad hand, both of them. I 
met up with them in the drug store. They’re swell 
girls. One’s a cutie, the other’s a queen. The 
queen says she won’t go unless you go, too.” 

“She will,” said Sally Belle. 

“Look here,” the boy said; “I don’t know where 
you get this stuff, but I tell you as a friend you 
can’t get away with it. Not with me. I wasn’t 
born yesterday.” 

“It’s nothing to me when you were born,” Sally 


THE BOY FROM AWAY 


275 


Belle explained; “absolutely nothing. And—and 
you’re not my friend. We have not been intro¬ 
duced.” 

“When I count three I’m going, and you’re go¬ 
ing with me. One, two-” 

“Will you please put down that sweater?” Sally 
Belle interrupted firmly. “It’s mine.” 

The boy put the sweater on the porch rail, fold¬ 
ing it very neatly. Then he sat down on it and 
stared at Sally Belle. He stared hard, just as if 
he had not seen her before. 

“You mean it,” he said slowly; “you’re not bluff¬ 
ing. You won’t go with me.” 

“No.” 

“Well,” said the boy, “you’re a new one. A new 
one on me. What do you know about that ? A new 
one in this jay town.” 

“It’s not a jay town. It’s the county-seat.” 

“Pardon me. My mistake. Mind if I sit here ?” 

“The porch isn’t my porch.” 

“Ye gods and little fishes!” the boy said softly. 
“Say,” he added respectfully, “who do you think 
you are?” 

He did not mean her to answer, so she did not. 



276 


GOING TOGETHER 


He took out a silver cigarette case and put it back in 
his pocket, unopened. He crossed his legs and sat 
still, looking at her. Sally Belle swung the ham¬ 
mock gently back and forth and looked straight into 
his eyes and smiled. 

“You get my goat/’ he said solemnly after a 
while; “that’s all I’ve got to say. You get my 
goat.” 

“I don’t want your goat,” Sally Belle explained. 
“I think you’d better go now. The girls are 
waiting.” 

“Let them wait,” the boy suggested quite hope¬ 
fully. “It won’t hurt them. Let’s go for a walk, 
just you and me—get an ice-cream soda. You eat? 
Don’t live on hot air? No? No, of course not. 
I—I was joking. But listen: if Free Foster brings 
me to call, in style, may I come in?” 

“Mr. Foster is my friend,” Sally Belle admitted. 

“Drive you round there right now, and have him 
out.” 

“How could I drive there with you? We have 
not been introduced.” 

“Introduce myself!” The boy rose and made a 
deep graceful bow. “Miss Smith, permit me-” 



THE BOY FROM AWAY 


277 


“I know your name. Every-girl in town does.” 

“Let’s hear you say it. Go on, it won’t bite you.” 

“'Tyler Peters,” Sally Belle said in a small soft 
voice. 

“My friends call me Pete.” 

“Indeed?” 

“Stung again!” The boy laughed a pleasant 
laugh, as if he liked to be stung. “If Free gets us 
all fixed up will you go riding to-morrow night?” 

“I may and I may not.” 

The boy laughed again and turned to go. At the 
foot of the steps he stopped and looked at Sally 
Belle and he was not—laughing at all. 

“Come here,” he said. 

Sally Belle got up and came slowly to the top of 
the steps and stood there, looking down at the boy. 

Her heart did not ache any more; she felt happy 
—happy all over, and she could write a poem, a 
long poem about the night. The stars were all out 
now; there were strange stars among them, little 
soft newborn stars. She would call the poem Magic 
Music. The night and the stars were all making it. 
Magic Music! 

The boy was talking again. 


278 


GOING TOGETHER 


“I saw you in church last Sunday and I—I liked 
your looks. I made up to those girls to-night just 
to get in with you. Did you know that? I guess 
you did. I guess a girl always knows.” 

The boy’s dark eyes were too big; you could not 
look at them. Sally Belle looked away from them, 
up at the stars again. 

“You—you know a lot, but you’ve got a lot to 
learn. So long, Miss Smith.” 


XVII 


GUESSING 

The apple tree at the end of the garden was Sally 
Belle’s place to watch sunsets from, but she was not 
here to watch the sunset to-night. 

The Smith lot was half an acre; it cut straight 
back from Main Street into this old tangled garden. 
The evergreen hedge was never clipped; it had 
grown to a high marching army of trees, with the 
big apple tree leading. The army kept out all the 
world. Beyond, there were other gardens and 
houses and streets, but here you were safe, deep in 
a fairy wood, a sleeping-beauty wood. Sally Belle 
stood still and listened. She heard a voice from the 
house; Lillian was calling her. 

The voice called again and stopped. She scram¬ 
bled up into the lowest crotch of the tree. She 
climbed higher, carefully; her rose-colored dimity 
dress and her patent-leather pumps were quite new. 

279 


28 o 


GOING TOGETHER 


There was a place in this tree that she used to call 
her nest. She reached it and cuddled into it, leaning 
back on two curving branches, fluffing out her rosy 
skirts and dangling her feet far down. There was 
not a scratch on the tiny pointed shoes. She was 
very proud of those shoes. She heard the town 
clock strike faintly; she was exactly on time. 

The sun was a round red ball, sinking into the 
hedge. It was going fast. Sally Belle sighed. The 
summer, too, was going fast—very fast. This was 
the last night of July. It was a wonderful sum¬ 
mer, a dream summer of dream days. No two days 
were alike, and each day was a little more thrilling, 
a little more sweet. Everything was fun, this sum¬ 
mer, more fun than it used to be; the old picnics 
and straw rides and the new parties that Pete 
planned. Pete had planned the party she was giv¬ 
ing to-morrow night, a fancy-dress ball; and she was 
to go as a rose. 

There were whole days when she did not see him, 
but any day when you woke up and the sun shone 
you knew that you might see him that day. Madgie 
and Lil had crushes on Pete. Pete was polite to 
them. He was polite to every one. He took Madgie 


GUESSING 


281 

to ride more often than Sally Belle. Madgie had 
good stuff in her, he explained, and he was trying 
to knock some of the nonsense out of her. But he 
liked Sally Belle better. He told her so. 

The red sun was quite gone now—asleep in the 
hedge, where it slept every night. The garden was 
touched with pink sunset light. It was a magic light. 
Knights in armor might come riding through it. 
Fairies might dance in it, hand in hand. You could 
close your eyes and almost hear their dance music 
—Magic Music. Music on an old square piano, 
tinkly and thin and clear; music that whispered 
something and wanted something. Sally Belle 
thrilled and sighed. If only this night, this minute, 
could last forever, without change; go on forever, 
just like this, to music—Magic Music. 

She sat up on her branch and listened. She heard 
real music now, a softly whistled tune on the other 
side of the hedge. She twisted her mouth up tight 
and whistled a bar of it in answer. It was Veazie. 

Way down in Veazie—I’m livin’ high. 

Then she pressed tight against the trunk of her 
tree, curled into a little heap, as if the trunk could 


282 


GOING TOGETHER 


open and take her in and hide her. She heard foot¬ 
steps. He was coming. He was very late, later than 
usual, but he was here. He pushed through the 
hedge, whistling low, to call her. He moved around 
cautiously, looking for her, then came and stood at 
the foot of her tree. He was all in white, very tall 
and straight, with his hair pale gold in the sunset 
light; Mr. Tyler Peters—Pete. He was looking into 
a corner of the hedge, where he thought he saw Sally 
Belle, and his dark eyes were quite angry. 

“Come out,” he called. “I see you but I shan’t 
go after you. This is kid stuff. I won’t stand for 
it. Come out.” 

If she sat still he would go away and not find her. 
She leaned far forward, watching him. One of 
her pumps came loose. She reached for it, but it 
slipped through her fingers and fell. It struck Pete 
on the forehead. He caught it and swung round 
and looked at her and frowned. 

“Saw you. Saw you all the time,” he said. 

“You did not.” 

“Doubt my word?” 

“Yes,” said Sally Belle sweetly. 


GUESSING 


283 


Pete kicked the tree. 

“I didn’t come here to play hide and seek,” he 
said. 

“What did you come for?” 

“You know.” 

Sally Belle giggled. Pete wanted her to kiss 
him. All boys expected to be kissed sometimes, she 
knew—all boys except Pig. Pete did not really 
want it; he was only pretending. It was one of the 
games he played. 

“Do I get it?” said Pete. 

“What?” 

“What I asked you for last night.” 

“Last night?” Sally Belle considered. “That’s a 
long time ago. You—you were late to-night.” 

“I had to see a fellow about something.” 

“Indeed?” 

“I—I’ve got a right to.” 

“Certainly. Go see one now if you want to.” 

“I don’t. Come down.” 

“I like it up here.” 

“May I come up?” 

“You might soil your white trousers.” 


284 


GOING TOGETHER 


“Come down. Give you till I count three.” 

“Count away,” said Sally Belle. She swung her 
feet. 

“You’ll get cold,” said Pete, watching them. 
Sally Belle drew up her shoeless foot and sat on 
it decorously. 

“Give me my slipper,” she said. 

“Sell it to you. What am I offered?” 

“Nothing. It’s mine.” 

“Fine shoe. Double A width. Super-fine.” Pete 
waved it. 

“Keep it,” said Sally Belle airily, “if you like 
it. I’ve got lots of shoes.” 

“Sell it to you for what I asked you for last 
night.” 

“One?” 

“Just one. How about it?” 

Pete stood frowning up at her. He was not really 
angry, only pretending; that was part of his game. 
Sally Belle laughed. She stopped laughing sud¬ 
denly. 

“Pete,” she begged, “don’t let’s be silly any more. 
I—I don’t feel silly. Come up here and sit by me, 
and be good.” 


GUESSING 


285 


“You,” grumbled Pete. “Oh, you!” 

But he put her shoe in his pocket, caught a branch 
of the tree and swung himself up, and climbed to a 
place beside her. He sat there hanging his legs 
down; beautiful long white legs. 

“You’re some little kid,” he said. 

Sally Belle did not answer. She sighed. 

“Some guys,” said Pete profoundly, “don’t know 
a kid when it’s kidding them. Your little friend 
Plummer, he’s in that class from what I hear. Get 
his eyes open when he comes home.” 

“It’s not August yet,” said Sally Belle eagerly. 

Pete laughed. 

“What are you going to be to-morrow night?” 

“Madgie and Lil and I are a nun and the evening 
star and a rose.” 

“Which is which?” 

“I can’t tell. I promised.” 

“You’re the nun,” said Pete with conviction. 

“Don’t be too sure.” 

“You’re the nun, all right. Cold, that’s what you 
are. Cold as a cake of ice.” 

Pete was starting his game again. 

“Don’t,” said Sally Belle suddenly, “please don’t. 


286 


GOING TOGETHER 


Tell me about the play; the play with the beautiful 
song —T oreador.” 

“It’s an opera,” said Pete sulkily. 

He did not tell her about it; he did not want to 
talk. He reached for her hand, but she pulled it 
away. She clasped both hands round her knees and 
rocked back and forth and looked at the garden. 
It was her garden and Pete’s, She would not come 
here often when Pete was gone. 

It was night in the garden now. The grass was 
a dim web of lovely vanishing green, and the hedge 
was a heavy hanging curtain of black-green mist. 
The dark was coming fast, very fast, and you could 
not stop it. It was a cold queer dark. Things could 
die in it; beautiful things—fairies and Magic Music. 
Sally Belle felt sorry for them. A sob came into her 
throat, but she swallowed it. Pete was here beside 
her. He was not gone yet. She had August. She 
had this evening. But there was something wrong 
with it—terribly wrong. Pete was getting more 
wrong every minute while they sat here. Pete was 
so silent and strange. 

“Talk, Pete,” she said. “Talk.” 


GUESSING 


287 


But at once she did not want him to talk. She 
felt afraid, and cold. It was too cold in the garden. 

She could not move until Pete spoke again. He 
spoke in a cold hard voice that she had not heard 
before. 

“I’m through,” he said. Sally Belle could not 
answer. She sat very still. Pete went on talking, all 
in that new hard voice. “Little girl, you’ve kept me 
guessing all summer. If you like me you’ve got to 
prove it. You can take me or lose me. It’s up to 
you. But I tell you this—I tell you as a friend—a 
girl that won’t come across is a cheat.” 

“A cheat?” 

“That’s what I said.” 

“What—what do you want me to do?” 

Pete held up her shoe. 

“You know.” 

“I see,” said Sally Belle calmly. “Wait.” 

“Don’t stall.” 

“I’m not. I—I’m thinking.” 

You did not really think, when you were hurt 
suddenly and very deeply; you just felt sorry. You 
did not need to think; it was as if she had always 


288 


GOING TOGETHER 


known what Pete had just told her; always known 
what to answer. She swung square round on her 
branch and looked at him through the dark. 

‘Til buy your shoe,” she told him. ‘Til pay you 
to-morrow night. You can trust me. I—I don’t 
cheat.” She moved close to him and held up a cold 
little silk-stockinged foot. “Put it on,” she said. 


XVIII 


COMING ACROSS 

A nun and an evening star and a rose sat on the 
edge of Sally Belle’s four-poster bed, masked and 
ready for the ball. The nun’s cowl and robe hid 
Lillian’s blond head and lovely slender figure. Mad- 
gie looked tall and changed in her black gauze and 
tinsel stars. Sally Belle was a flutter of pink cam¬ 
bric petals from neck to ankle—a garden of roses, 
not one rose. 

The masks were all cut by one pattern, high on 
the forehead, with long ruffles over the chin. Be¬ 
hind them your heart might break and the world 
would not know. But though your heart broke, balls 
were still balls. Sally Belle had a duty to perform 
and her plans for it were complete; she would do 
it before supper. Until then she would dance; you 
could dance while Rome burned. To-morrow she 
would live in a changed and empty world, but she 
could dance to-night. 


289 


290 


GOING TOGETHER 


Lillian had quarreled with Tish about Pete, and 
had little interest in this ball or any ball. 

“I’m hot,” she complained. “I hate to dress up, 
and I can’t go two hours without talking. I’ll be 
dumb.” 

“No great loss,” said Madgie crudely. “You can’t 
talk till we unmask; you promised. You can whis¬ 
per some.” 

“I don’t see any sense to it.” 

“It’s more fun.” 

“Who for?” The nun choked down a sob. “I 
wish Tyler Peters was dead.” 

“He isn’t,” said Sally Belle softly. 

“How do you know whether he’s alive or dead?” 
asked the nun unkindly. “A prig like you?” 

“She knows, all right.” The evening star slipped 
an arm round Sally Belle, who wriggled in her em¬ 
brace. “Tish will make up with you, Lil. Any¬ 
thing can happen in a mask. Go on down. We’ll 
come later. We’ve got a bone to pick.” 

The nun went, trailing heavy draperies disdain¬ 
fully. 

“I don’t want to pick bones,” said Sally Belle; 


COMING ACROSS 


291 


“I want to dance.” But the star’s arm held her 
tight. “What bone?” she asked coldly. 

“Pete,” said the star concisely, “and he is some 
bone too.” 

Sally Belle stiffened, but sat still. 

“What about him?” she asked quite calmly. 

“Three things,” said the star, in the crisp smooth 
voice that ruled the crowd. 

“I’m listening.” 

“First place, you have a date with him every 
night.” 

“You do. A little bird told me.” 

“He told you. Pete.” 

“A bird,” the star insisted, coyly but firmly. “Sec¬ 
ond place, you have a crush on him; a worse crush 
than Lil. Pig’s away and the mice can play. Third 
place-” 

“My guests are waiting,” said Sally Belle, with 
dignity but without effect. 

“Third place, Pete’s not worth it. Pete is noth¬ 
ing to me; merely a friend, that’s all. I’m going 
with Stub. But I know what kind of a boy Pete is. 




292 


GOING TOGETHER 


I know it right down to the ground. He’s a cheap 
city sport, that’s what he is. Fun for a girl that 
can handle him, but you can’t. Kid like you with 
your nose in a book-” 

“Can’t I?” asked Sally Belle softly. 

“Not a chance. You don’t know what you’re get¬ 
ting into. I tell you as a friend.” 

“If you knew so much why didn’t you tell me be¬ 
fore?” said Sally Belle. “It—it’s too late now. I can 
take care of myself. Miss Carr. When I can’t I’ll 
come to you. Now I must join my guests. Come 
down when you wish to. I shall be pleased to see 
you.” She picked up her rose-trimmed fan, waved 
it airily, and paused for a final word. “You’re jeal¬ 
ous,” she finished sweetly, and was gone, in a crack¬ 
ling rustle of petals. 

Madgie meant well; her words were pin pricks in 
a heart already pierced and bleeding; they were for¬ 
gotten already. Sally Belle fluttered down the stairs, 
paused in the candle-lit hall, peeping in at the two 
long parlors, then slipped inside and stood screened 
by a high shiny palm and looked at the ball. 

It was a beautiful ball, even to jaded and world- 
weary eyes. The palms and flowers were from 



COMING ACROSS 


293 


Carr’s greenhouse, the floor was slippery with wax, 
and the carpet tacks made precarious bumps in the 
corners. The costumes were cheese-cloth or old 
clothes from attics. The boys had dressed up under 
protest, the girls were jealous of one another’s cos¬ 
tumes. But you did not care. You felt all round 
you the strange thrill that makes a party. You 
looked at a fairy scene, all soft lights and gay flying 
colors. In the dining-room, out of sight, Old Hig¬ 
gins was playing an old-fashioned waltz with a 
sleepy, slow swinging tune. The room and the world 
swung in time to it. You saw Columbia, three peas¬ 
ant maidens, two Priscillas, Santa Claus, very grand 
in a new home-made costume and rented wig and 
beard. He was short and he could not reverse. He 
was Stubby Giles. You saw the nun, her troubles all 
forgotten, dancing in double-quick time, with an In¬ 
dian chief. The chief was tall and wore a bright 
head-dress of feathers and danced as only one boy 
in town could dance. He was doing the new dip 
waltz. The costume came from a real costumer in 
Boston. The boy was Pete. 

Sally Belle put both hands on her heart and 
started forward. A dark figure blocked her way— 


294 


GOING TOGETHER 


a monk, correct in brown outing flannel, with bath 
slippers for sandals and bare ankles that looked red 
and cold. It was Tish. Lil had told him about 
Sally Belle’s costume, and he knew her. He made 
no attempt to disguise his voice. It was severe, like 
a real monk’s. 

“Dance,” he demanded. “I’ve got a bone to pick 
with you, about a friend of mine.” 

“I don’t care to discuss your friends,” said Sally 
Belle, dodging. 

The monk caught her and swept her into his 
brown flannel embrace and out on the floor. He 
smelled quite strongly of moth balls. 

“I had a letter to-day,” he announced. 

“Indeed?” 

“From a friend of mine.” 

“Pig.” 

“I won’t mention names. I never mention names. 
But he’s a good friend of mine and a good friend of 
yours, and I’m a good friend of yours, too.” 

“That’s nice,” said Sally Belle absently. The nun 
and the Indian chief were resting on a bench be¬ 
hind a palm. She could see only their feet. They 
sat very close together. 


COMING ACROSS 


295 


“I am a darn good friend of yours,” said the 
monk solemnly. “I like you. I like you fine. I 
always did. But you’re a kid, that’s all you are, or 
ever will be. A twelve-year-old kid.” 

“Pm fifteen,” said Sally Belle with dignity. 

“If certain girls in this town,” the monk went on 
bitterly, “can’t tell a cheap city bounder from a genu¬ 
ine guy, let them fall for him. I won’t stop them. I 
won’t lift a hand. But I can’t sit tight and see him 
put it over on a kid like you. You watch your 
step, Miss Smith. If you don’t-” 

“Yes?” prompted Sally Belle calmly. 

“I’ll write to a friend of mine and put him wise 
to you.” 

“Me?” 

“You and Tyler Peters.” The monk threw bit¬ 
ter irony into his voice. “Pete!” 

“You are under a misconception,” said Sally 
Belle. “You—you don’t understand. You mean 
well, Tish, and I like you. I like you lots. But 
I’m going to write to Pig myself to-night. And”— 
she ducked out of the monk’s arms with a quick 
little shrug and skipped backward., avoiding his 
grasp—“I can take care of myself,” she said. 



296 


GOING TOGETHER 


“Don’t do anything rash,” she heard Tish call as 
she left him. 

She laughed bitterly. People let you alone when 
you needed help, and nagged you when you did 
not. That was life. But Tish had hurt her, and 
Madgie had hurt her. Santa Claus, cooling off 
alone in a corner, with his beard in his hand, looked 
thoughtful and gloomy, as if he, too, had a bone to 
pick. Between them they were spoiling her evening. 
She did not want to dance any more. 

She would have liked to go and hide from the 
party in father’s den, where mother and father were 
playing duplicate whist with the Sewalls, and drink¬ 
ing the party fruit punch before it was served; 
father said that chaperoning was dry work. But 
she was grown up now and could not hide, and she 
had learned that hiding did no good. You could 
not stay hidden. You had to come out some time 
and face your troubles. She would face them now. 
She would do at once the hard thing that she had 
to do. 

She edged her way round the room to the bench 
where the nun and chief had sat. They were gone. 
The waltz music had stopped, and the party w r as 


COMING ACROSS 


297 


dancing on, whistling the tune, or stopping to clap 
for more music. Standing face to face in the heart 
of the crowd, clapping their hands against each 
other’s, she saw the nun and the chief. She pushed 
her way toward them and reached them. She 
caught a flying string of the chief’s beads and 
pulled it hard. It broke and the beads scattered on 
the floor. The chief swung round and saw her. 

“Kidnapped,” he said, and laughed. 

Sally Belle tried to laugh, too, but she could not. 
He was dazzling, splendid; he had beads, wampum, 
a blanket, a battle-ax—everything. His bare arms 
were stained dark brown, his mask was a war mask 
grotesquely painted, with his eyes showing bright 
through the holes. Sally Belle held out her arms and 
stood waiting, a small but determined rose. The 
music was starting again, faster and louder. He 
plunged his arm expertly among the rose petals and 
swung her into the dance. 

“Who are you?” he asked. 

Sally Belle shook her rose-crowned head. 

“A rose.” 

“I know you, all right. There’s just one girl in 
this jay town with nerve enough to sandbag me 


298 


GOING TOGETHER 


like this. Just one girl in this town or any town 
for me.” 

“Who?” breathed Sally Belle. 

“Madgie Carr.” 

“Oh!” sighed Sally Belle. “Oh!” 

“Look at me.” 

Sally Belle drooped her eyelids, hiding her eyes, 

“Why the modest-violet stuff. Can it. What’s 
eating you ? Sore about last night ? I had to leave 
early. I had a date with a fellow. Short and sweet 
—that’s my motto. You’re not jealous of that kid? 
Not again?” 

“Kid?” 

“The Smith kid. I told you all about her.” 

“Tell me again,” whispered Sally Belle very low. 

“She’s got a case on me. A bad case. She’d 
like mighty well to start something, but I don’t see 
it that way. I’m trying to knock the nonsense out 
of her. There’s some good stuff in her. She’s a 
good little kid. But she’s not in your class. Get 
me?” 

“I get you.” Sally Belle pressed closer against 
the wampum and beads. “Don’t talk,” she whis¬ 
pered. “Dance.” 


COMING ACROSS 


299 


They danced. He held her very tight, so that she 
seemed to be flying. Beautiful words came sing¬ 
ing into her head, as they always did when she 
danced: The Last Walts. 

That was the name of something, a picture or a 
song. The Last Ride Together —that was the name 
of something, too, a verse from a poem that she had 
written herself: 

The stately swaying minuet, 

Through which a thrill of intrigue ran, 

The whispering words of ill intent, 

Half heard behind a waving fan— 

A thrill of intrigue. It was all round her, in 
strange, bulky, costumed figures, in the chief’s 
masked face so close to hers. Old Higgins played 
like a whole band of fiddlers, not one; gypsy fiddlers, 
playing in the dark, hungry and cold and happy. 

“Who cares if the world should end to-night?” 
she whispered. 

“I don’t get you,” said the chief. 

They were close to a long casement window. 
Sally Belle stopped dancing and slipped out of his 
arms, and pushed the window wide. She stepped 


3 °° 


GOING TOGETHER 


through it and stood framed in it, waiting. All her 
pink petals fluttered. 

“Come,” she said. 

He followed her and she shut the winnow tight 
behind them, with all the party inside. She took 
the chief’s hand firmly. 

“Come,” she said again. 

She led him across the lawn to the garden gate. 
She pulled him through it, and on down the path, 
stumbling over the borders. 

The garden was very dark, and the apple tree at 
the end loomed high and strange. She guided him 
to it. 

“Great minds run in the same channel,” he said 
a little guiltily. “You—you wouldn’t prefer to go 
somewhere else?” 

“No,” said Sally Belle firmly, “we have to sit 
here.” 

She sat down on the soft damp grass and he sat 
beside her. 

“Take off your mask,” she said. She untied her 
own mask with steady fingers and laid it on the 
grass with Pete’s. 

“Light a match,” she ordered. 


COMING ACROSS 


301 


“Oblige a lady,” Pete agreed. 

He fumbled for his box, struck one match that 
went out, and another that flared high. He held 
it up and looked at her. She saw his smiling face, 
pale in the dark, with the eyes very bright and big. 
He stopped smiling and stared at her. He stared 
and stared. The match burned his fingers. He 
dropped it. He sat quiet, looking toward her 
through the dark, as if he could see her. Looking 
at her and saying nothing—Pete! She had read 
of minutes that were as long as hours. This was 
one. 

“Ye gods and little fishes!” he said softly at last. 
And then, “Hell's bells!” And then, very softly and 
sadly, “Damn! Excuse my French.” 

“I excuse it,” said Sally Belle graciously. 

“You’ve got me,” Pete announced; “you’ve got 
me right where you want me.” 

“Yes,” said Sally Belle. 

“Stung,” said Pete bitterly, “by a kid like you. A 
small-town kid.” 

“Yes.” 

“I have to hand it to you,” Pete admitted, “and 
I do. Here’s where I gef off. I’ll go way back 


3° 2 


GOING TOGETHER 


and sit down. I know when Fm licked. But I won’t 
apologize.” 

“You don’t have to.” 

“You’ve got my number. I’ve had three girls on 
the string all summer, and kept them going.” 

“Three?” 

“Three. Count them. I ought to know.” 

“Not—not-” 

“Lil Sewall. Yes. I didn’t get far with her. 
Nobody could. She’s cold.” 

“Do you think you got far with me?” 

“Yes,” said Pete simply. “I’m not proud of it, 
but I’m not ashamed of it either. You can’t be 
young but once.” 

“No,” sighed Sally Belle. 

“I—I was writing to four other girls all the time. 
You might as well know it.” 

“Yes.” 

“I—I liked you the best of the lot. No use to 
tell you that now.” 

“No.” 

“It’s true. If—if you cared to let bygones be by¬ 
gones and—and start something—well, maybe I 
couldn’t toe the mark—but I’d make a bluff at it.” 


COMING ACROSS 


303 


Sally Belle received his offer in silence. The 
chief wriggled on the grass. 

“Spit it out,” he urged. “Call me down if you’re 
sore.” 

“I’m not sore,” said Sally Belle. 

“You’ve got a right to be sore. I’ve done you 
dirt, and I’m sorry.” 

“What for?” asked Sally Belle. 

“Fooling you.” 

“You didn’t fool me. I fooled you.” 

“How do you dope that out ?” 

Sally Belle sighed. She hated to be unkind, and 
now she had to be. 

“Pete, I knew,” she said—“I knew all the time, 
from the very first night. I—I knew all about it.” 

“What?” 

“You,” said Sally Belle, “and Madgie and Lil— 
and the other girls. And pretending and lying. Ex¬ 
cuse me, but you do lie. You”—she paused, recall¬ 
ing just the words that described him—“you’re a 
cheap city sport.” 

“I am, am I?” 

“Oh, yes,” said Sally Belle eagerly. 

“Would you kindly explain to me,” Pete asked in 


304 


GOING TOGETHER 


measured tones, “why you stood for me if you were 
on to me?” 

“You have to act just the way you act. Y r ou 
have to lie and pretend,” Sally Belle explained. 
“That was part of it.” 

“Part of what?” 

“Flirting,” said Sally Bele wistfully. She thrilled 
and sighed. “I wanted to flirt,” she said. She 
choked down a sob and went on quite bravely: “I 
always wanted to and I never could. All the girls 
can but me. I’ve tried to, with you, all summer. 
I did the best I could. But it’s no use. It’s too 
hard. I’ve got to give up. I can’t flirt.” 

“The deuce you can’t!” 

“I can’t—I can’t stand things like this.” 

“Like what?” 

“This. Shut your eyes. Tight.” 

Sally Belle touched Pete’s eyes with her fingers. 
They were shut. She caught up her mask and got up 
and stood beside him. She fluffed out her crumpled 
skirts; the cambric was quite limp. She was a fad¬ 
ing rose, but roses died in a night. She was not 
afraid at all, but she was trembling all over. The 
trembling would not stop and her heart beat very 


COMING ACROSS 


305 


hard. She bent over Pete closer and closer. Their 
heads touched—their faces; that cold thing was 
Pete's cheek and the warm place was his mouth. She 
kissed him. 

She drew back quickly. She was trembling still, 
but she ran quickly and lightly. She found the path. 
The dark hid her. She was safe. 

“You kid—you cute little highbrow kid—come 
back here.” 

Pete had jumped up, crushing his mask under¬ 
foot. He stood calling her, there in the garden that 
had belonged to them both and never would again. 
How dark it was! Dark as a night without dreams. 

“I don't cheat. Good-by,” she said. 


XIX 


MAGIC MUSIC 

Dear Harold : I am well, and I hope you are 
well. 

Sally Belle sat by her bedroom window, writing 
her letter to Pig. She had sat here ever since the 
party went home, but that was all she had written. 
The letter was hard to write, but it was pleasant to 
sit here, at her little new white desk, with two 
candles burning and the noise of the party all gone. 
She had on her silken kimono, pale pink, like a rose¬ 
bud just blown, and her hair was in two soft cuddly 
braids. Beside her on the desk was her pile of let¬ 
ters from Pig. The letters were all just alike in¬ 
side, but how fast the pile had grown! She was 
saving her glass of milk until the letter was written. 
There was cream on top. She looked at it hungrily 
and wrote another sentence: 

I have got something to tell you- 

306 



MAGIC MUSIC 


307 

Sally Belle was using her new fountain pen and 
dipping it in the ink. She dipped it again and read 
the words she had written—black, staring words. 
The ink dried on the pen. She wiped it and put it 
down. She went to the west window and stood there 
looking out. It was hard to tell Pig. She told 
Pig everything, and had meant all summer to tell 
him about her affair with Pete when it was ended. 

“This is the end,” she said aloud. 

The words had a solemn sound that was very 
beautiful. Nobody heard, but a little wind was 
stirring the trees outside her window, as if it were 
trying to answer. Sally Belle leaned far out and 
listened and looked. 

From this window you saw the garden; it was 
there, in the dark, waiting—her garden where she 
had heard Magic Music. Pete brought the music, 
of course. She heard it the first night he came. She 
never wanted to see Pete again. He was a cheap 
city sport. But the music was sweet. Where was 
it now ? Asleep in the garden, where the sun slept at 
night ? It was not dead. It was alive somewhere, 
out there in the dark, only she could not hear. If 
she could only hear it again—just once. 


3°8 


GOING TOGETHER 


Sally Belle shut the west window. It was late. 
She went back to her desk and dipped her pen. It 
blotted, but she wrote on quite fast: 

I have got something to tell you when you come 
back. It is too long to write. It is not very nice. 
I have been a silly girl all summer. I want you to 
come back. I miss you, Pig. 

Yours truly, 

Sarah Isabel Smith. 

Sally Belle folded the letter into a square pink en¬ 
velope and sealed it with her seal—a rose. She 
kissed the seal lightly once. It was the way she al¬ 
ways sealed letters to Pig. It was rather a silly 
way, but Pig did not know about it. She drank 
her milk, blew out the candles, folded the rose 
kimono carefully over a chair, where she could see 
it next morning when she waked, and slipped into 
bed with the letter to Pig in her hand. She put it 
under her pillow. She was glad it was written, 
very glad. 

She opened her eyes and sat up, staring wide- 
eyed at the dark. Her room looked just as it always 
looked; everything was in place, the kimono safe on 


MAGIC MUSIC 


309 


the chair, the white curtains waving at the win¬ 
dow beside her bed. That window was open, but 
the west window was shut. No sound could come 
from the garden, but she had heard a sound, a small, 
clear, silver sound. What was it? It was like some 
one singing a very long way off, and very sweetly. 
She could not hear it now, only Pig's letter rustling 
under the pillow as she lay down again. It was 
a dream perhaps, but it was not like a dream. It 
was like—like- 

“Magic Music—Pig,” whispered Sally Belle, half 
asleep. Then she turned on her pillow and slept. 



XX 


THE DREAM-TREE 

The horse chestunt tree on the lawn looked very- 
big in the dark. 

There was no moon to-night. There were little 
stars, a few of them, struggling into sight too late 
when the town was asleep and there was no one 
to look. The stars were kind to the tree. It was 
an old tree now and it would not live much longer. 
The roots had been hurt when the lawn was plowed 
last year and this year the leaves had not been so 
thick and glossy and they were falling too early, 
fluttering down in scattering casual gusts. But the 
tree was splendid by starlight. 

All its lost beauty and more came back to it and 
clothed it—dark magic beauty, waiting gracious and 
proud for eyes that could see it, for the clearest 
eyes in the world, the eyes of a dreaming child. 
Eyes that see more than they know that they are 
2,io 


THE DREAM-TREE 


3” 


seeing, and remember and dream of it through 
dreams they forget in waking, but live in the light of 
always. Beautiful dreams. 

Dreams about cool still dawns and long sunny 
days, and short haunted twilights. Dreams of re¬ 
membered songs and forgotten faces, and of the one 
face that lives in the heart when the other faces die. 
That face was there, in the dark of the tree to-night. 
It was there every night, but it was not quite clear 
there yet. Dreaming eyes could not see it yet, but 
they would see it soon. 

The tree was a dream-tree. 


THE END 


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